Beginning’s End
by erica1531
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every beginning, there is an end. Michelle and Tony, in the eighteen months between S3 and S4.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **_It's finally ready to begin: my version of what happened to Michelle from the end of S3 up until just before S4. I'm kicking things off with a prologue, but please note that it is really not indicative of the chapters to come, most noticeably in that the rest of the story is written in the third person. I simply felt that this needed to be written as a prelude to the story to come. The first chapter will be up shortly. Feedback would be much appreciated._

* * *

**Prologue**

"I just tried to see Tony. Security said you're denying me access?"

"He's a prisoner, Michelle."

"I'm his wife! He did what he did to save my life."

"I'm aware of that. And because of that, he's being charged with treason."

More incredulous than anything else, I respond, "Treaso—Brad, look, I know that he broke protocol by taking Jane Saunders out of CTU, but he never would have given her up…"

"Michelle—"

"… and because of him, we were able to catch Saunders."

He rises. "We had Saunders two hours ago. And Tony let him escape." I can feel shock and dismay displaying themselves prominently in my features; I am far too tired and taken aback to mask my emotions. For once at a loss for words, I stare numbly at Brad.

"No one told you?" he asks with some kind of perverse satisfaction, "We _had_ Saunders trapped in a building downtown. We were ready to drop the net," he says angrily, "And Tony pulled units out of position so Saunders could get away."

I look down and shake my head in disbelief; I am unable to believe that my Tony, my hero, could do something so irresponsible. I will the tears not to fall. "Brad, it was an impossible choice," I almost whisper, and even to me the words sound false, even to me it is clear that I don't believe the words I am saying for one moment.

"No, it wasn't," he says decisively, returning to his seat. "Tony has a sworn duty to protect the people of this country. Putting your life was treasonous. And he's going to prison for it."

"Brad," I say weakly, still too stunned and too disgusted with Tony to have any real argument, but nonetheless trying to stand up for my husband.

"I want you to put yourself in his place, Michelle. If you would have made the same call, you should resign right now."

He smirks at me, and I stare back, powerless to make my mouth form the words that my mind and heart are screaming at me. _Of course I wouldn't have done that! I could never, ever live with myself if I was responsible for the deaths of millions many people. No matter who it is, one person is never more important than all those lives._

* * *

I stand stoically in a tech room, monitoring feed and overseeing subordinates when Tony walks in. I turn and stare at him, anguish heavy on my face. Tony turns to the techs, saying "Could you give us a minute, please?" They oblige without hesitation; CTU is loyal to Tony and loyal to me.

Slowly, he turns to face me. I find myself almost unable to meet his eyes. I am simply too scared about the situation he's in. The situation we're in. "What's going on?" I ask softy, fully aware that the tears are audible in my voice.

"I'm back in custody," he tells me resignedly, " Hammond's taking me down to Federal." He tries to keep the fear and heaviness from his voice, but we both know how badly he's failing.

I can feel the tears forming behind my eyes. I am unable to reconcile myself to the thought that Tony, my Tony, Tony who's risked his life more times than I can count, all for the sake of the country—the idea that he's being taken to _prison_, even if he did make one really horrible decision.

"No. No, they can't do this. Not after everything you've accomplished today." _Not even if you did something not even I'm sure I can ever forgive you for. _But it's stillwrong; I know how wrong this is. It's wrong.

And on a more selfish level, I can't stand the thought of Tony being taken away from me. Even more than that, I recoil from the thought of Tony suffering the horrors of prison. It's unthinkable that they could do that to him after all he's sacrificed for the country. And he has; he's given everything to the job and gotten nothing in return. I try to blink back the tears.

He looks at me, clearly hurting, but tenderly nonetheless. "Michelle," he murmurs, moving close to me, "I put your well-being above the country's." _Stop reminding me why I should be slapping you right now._ "Nothing anybody can say will ever change that fact." I look away and try not to break down just yet. I can't look at him right now. I can't see in his eyes how real this is; I can't let myself remember that he's done this, and the repercussions are going to be very, very real.

"But they can't—they can't put you in prison," I insist. I know that they can, but what I really mean is that they can't put him in prison with any ethical justification. He's given up too much for them. I meet his eyes again as I search for reassurance—reassurance that I know I will not see—that maybe, just maybe, this won't happen. But I've been in this field too long to think that just because things are horribly, horribly wrong doesn't mean that they don't happen, and doesn't mean that they're not supported by the government.

But, in response to my words, he nods vigorously. "Yes they can," he says shattering the dream world I'd woven in those few seconds. I shake my head, unable to accept the harsh, cruel reality, swallowing back tears. "And they will, for a long time, believe me."

I find myself once again unable to meet his eyes as I say, "Tony, don't talk like this!" _As long as you say it, it can't be true. Don't say it. Don't make it real._ The words are spoken. It's done. It's real. _Damn you for making it real!_

"Tony, don't talk like this, I—"

"Michelle…" he whispers, cutting me off."

"I can't—"

"Michelle…"

"I won't give up on you."_ No matter how much I resent what you did, and no matter how wrong it is. It's even more wrong for them to put you in prison after all the good you've done for them. You're still my Tony, and you're still _right._It's not fairfor them to do this when you're still right._

"Michelle, don't do this."

"I can't—" He cuts me off by pulling me in, and kissing me hard. Shaking, I kiss him back, desperate to feel his lips on mind, desperate for his touch, and desperate for assurance that he's still with me, however briefly. His touch, even now, manages to comfort me. I clasp him to me, feeling his body against mine,

Too soon, he breaks the kiss and steps back. But then he cups my now tear-stained face in his hands. I don't know when, exactly, I started to let the tears fall.

"Baby, you're alive." His voice cracks, "And nobody else got hurt because of what I did. And that's more than I'd hoped for. I can live with that," he says, his voice shaking now, and his confidence more miserably false-sounding than before, "Even in prison."

A guard comes in. "Tony," he calls, emotionlessly, as though to remind me just how pathetically emotional I am, "It's time." He steps in and reaches for Tony. I give his arm one last squeeze, and hold onto him tight before I know I have to let go.

Tony pulls away and leaves, looking at me over his shoulder with such a mixture of hurt, love, and regret, that I actually hear a shattering sound. I am awoken rudely to reality as I hear the door close and I stand there, crying.


	2. Aftermath

**A/N: **_Thank you for all the response tot he prologue! Several people commented on how emotional those scenes were-- and that is so, so true. If you have access to the DVDs, go back and watch them again. Nothing I write will ever compete with Reiko. And to answer the question about how long this will span: it _will_ end before S4 begins, but I see no reason why there shouldn't be a sequel. Honestly, though, that's a long way away and I'm nowhere near ready to be thinking about it. So let's get this baby started! Bear with me through the first couple paragraphs until we hit the meat of it. Please review._

_

* * *

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**Chapter One: Aftermath **

"Thank you, Ms. Dessler."

"Mr. President." Michelle switched off the videoconferencing unit and glanced around the table to the department heads assembled in the room.

"I know you're all tired, and I know today has been incredibly stressful for all of us. But we are still working to contain the quarantine zones and we have yet to begin filing reports for all of what has gone on today. We've been on active protocol for twenty-four hours, meaning that we have that much more paperwork to deal with in order to catch ourselves up. So…"

Michelle continued with an explanation of the procedures she was putting in place to begin to clean up the mess of the day. At long last, she drew the meeting to a close. "Thank you all for the work you've done today, last night, and yesterday. By six tonight we'll be releasing this shift, but until then we need to focus. I expect progress reports sent to my screen in thirty minutes."

Gathering her laptop and notebook, Michelle stood, nodded to her staff, and turned. As department heads rose and made their way towards the doorway, Michelle moved out of the room and towards her office. Reaching her desk, she dropped into the chair with a shuddering sigh and typed an access code into her system.

For about twenty minutes, she was intent on her work as her fingers flew over the keyboard and she dealt with CTU's internal issues over the phone. For the moment, at least, she didn't have to worry about coordinating with other agencies; Hammond was handling that. But although Michelle was relieved that she didn't have to worry about bureaucratic tussling, she was nonetheless a little resentful that he was speaking for _her_ office.

Finally, Michelle lifted her hands from the keyboard and sat back. She could feel physical and emotional fatigue washing over her in waves. As the dizziness began to blur her thoughts, she dropped her head into her hand. Fighting back tears, she struggled to gain control of her erratic breathing.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't handle this—not now, not ever. It was too much—her body was crying out for sleep, but it was her overworked emotional restraint that was truly falling apart. How much longer could she keep it together? Could she really do this for four more hours? No. No, she couldn't. She couldn't do this…

The ringing of her phone jerked Michelle back to reality. She inhaled a long breath, and lifted her head from her hand. Keeping her agency running smoothly was her responsibility, and no matter how tired she was, it was a duty she could not shirk. Picking up the receiver, Michelle steeled herself to get through the rest of the day.

"Dessler," she answered automatically. The last traces of discernable strain evaporated as she reached for her keyboard to continue her report and spoke into the phone, sandwiching it between her ear and shoulder.

"Yeah, I know you need it; I just sent it to your system….volume four…. That's where that class of data always goes, Adam…all right, I'll tell her to get it to you... but in the future, this should be interdepartmental… yes, I realize that, Adam…good. I'm glad were on the same page."

She hung up the phone and turned her full attention back to the report. Reports… how many reports would she be filing over the days to come? The irony was not lost on her. Filing reports… _How fitting_, she thought bitterly, _that when I have no idea how the hell my life could be so thoroughly and completely destroyedin the last twenty-four hours, I'm the one explaining toe veryone else what happened. _

* * *

She was past the point of taking it. It didn't matter how much resolve she had—after thirty hours of non-stop work, dealing with everything from repeated brushes with death to carrying the sole responsibility for preventing a deadly pandemic—her body was giving out.

By four-thirty that afternoon, Michelle's headache had gotten so bad she could barely see straight, and even as her fingers moved unfalteringly over the keyboard, her mind was slipping in and out of consciousness.

Finally acknowledging that she needed to take a minute, Michelle stood up from her desk and made her way across the floor to the ladies' room. Pushing open the door, she inhaled sharply severaltimes, trying not to cry, as she dropped her head into a limp, shaking hand. Michelleplaced one hand against the corner of the wall, leaning all her weight against it, and struggled to suppress sobs.

It was while Michelle was standing like that, chocking back tears and drawing ragged breath into her exhausted body that she almost jumped out of her skin. The sound of a door unlocking reverberated unnecessarily loudly through the room as Chloe stepped out of the stall.

Turning on the faucet, Chloe glanced with unmasked incredulity at Michelle. Michelle— eternally composed deputy director of CTU Los Angeles whom efficient professionalism characterized just as much as her brilliant work— was crumpled in a corner, crying.

"You're a mess," Chloe observed flatly.

Surprised, Michelle glanced up. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'You're a mess.'" Chloe repeated slowly, as if she were talking to a small child.

Michelle looked at her curiously. "Yeah. I guess I am." She certainly hadn't been expecting that kind of comment from one of her subordinates— but she was not, as she would have expected, angry. On the contrary, Michelle felt a little relieved and the lump in her throat loosened a little. "I really am, aren't I?"

"Well, yeah," Chloe agreed amicably, reaching for paper towels, "I mean, look at you. You're an emotional wreck—I mean, your husband gets shot— in the _neck_—and then you end up inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel, and then you get kidnapped, and he commits _treason_ to save you? I mean, how the hell are you supposed to deal with that?"

"Chloe…"

"Like, he's arrested for treason and you're still in charge of running this agency even though you kind of look like you're going to pass out, even if you're not crying."

"Uh…"

"Pretty much sucks to be you."

"Uh…. Chloe?" Michelle questioned, perplexed. She didn't know exactly what the other woman was driving at, but she was, strangely enough, a little relieved. Everyone, all day, had been tiptoeing around her, acting as if she might break if someone said the wrong thing, Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have someone lay it all out there for her…

"And, Michelle, I just wanted you to know that if you ever, you know, need someone to talk to? I'm here for you. I mean, I know you're my superior and everything but technically I'm in Jack's department, not yours, and I just thought you could probably use a friend. Especially since you're not going to be able to tell anyone without clearance what happened today, it just seemed like…" Chloe trailed off and reached for the door.

"All I'm saying is that you're probably going to need someone to talk to, and I'm willing to listen." Without meeting Michelle's eyes, Chloe shoved open the door and hurried out, embarrassed by her rambling.

Michelle stared incredulously after her, saying softly, "Thanks."

And thus began the unlikeliest and oddest of friendships.

* * *

Standing on her doorstep, key in hand, Michelle found herself unable to lift her hand to the knob. It wasn't just that the weight of her briefcase and purse were taking an unnecessary toll on her truly exhausted body, and it wasn't just that she was shaking so badly her hand could barely keep the key from dropping.

No. She couldn't… couldn't bring herself to defile the home that she and Tony had built by entering it alone. Never mind the countless times she'd been there alone, or when he'd been there alone if one of them was working late or away. That was different.

But tonight… she was all too aware that after tonight, it was entirely possibly that Tony might never again walk over the threshold with her. Entirely possible that if she stepped into their house without him, it might force her to mark the beginning of her life without him.

And she couldn't do it. She looked down at her trembling hand, and she couldn't do it…so the floodgates burst. All the tears she hadn't cried that day came pouring out of her in torrents, and she found herself sinking onto the cold step and letting the tears come. Tears. So many tears. Tears she should have cried before. Why hadn't she cried when she was inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel? When eight hundred people were dying in agony before her eyes? Why hadn't she cried then?

Why hadn't she cried when she found out that because her teams hadn't sealed their perimeter quickly enough, William Cole started off a citywide epidemic? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when a prison riot was killing scores of guards? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when dozens of agents and Delta teams were killed in Mexico? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when Nina killed her medical personnel? Why hadn't she cried then? Why hadn't she cried when so many hapless civilians throughout the day had been caught in the crossfire of their ruthless mission, and been killed? Why hadn't she cried then?

And now, here she was, crying because she couldn't see her husband. What kind of horrible, selfish person was she? Crying for her husband who was alive when so many had died. Who was she to think she was suffering? When she had so narrowly escaped death from the virus, what right did she have to cry?

Why was she crying now?

* * *

Her cell phone was ringing. It took full three rings for it to register in her mind that her phone was ringing. Trying to stifle the sobs long enough to answer, Michelle flipped it open. "Dessler."

"Michelle, it's Chloe."

Standing up, Michelle could feel her alerts awakening. "What's going on?" she asked apprehensively.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" repeated Michelle, confused. If there wasn't another situation, why in the hell was Chloe calling her when neither one of them had slept in days?

"No. I just—are you okay, Michelle?"

"I'm fine," she said shortly, standing straighter and gripping her purse.

"I just... you were such a mess when you left; I wanted to make sure you got home okay. Did you?"

Instinctively defensive, Michelle shoved the key into the lock and pushed the door open. "I'm home. I'm fine."

By the time Chloe, suspicious of Michelle's tear-choked voice, asked "Are you sure?" Michelle was dropping her keys and bags onto the table and moving towards the kitchen for a glass of water.

"I'm sure. I'm fine, Chloe. Get some sleep."

"Fine," Chloe sputtered, clearly embarrassed as the connection clicked off. Michelle snapped her own phone shut, and then stood, staring at it in her hand, in the middle of the kitchen. When the hell did she get in here? In Tony's kitchen? And what was she doing in there without him?

Allowing the cell phone to drop onto the counter, Michelle pulled high-heeled boots off her aching feet and felt herself moving mechanically towards the bedroom. Without realizing it, Michelle was already tossing her leather jacket onto a chair and pulling the v-neck top over her head. She stared down at the black lace demi-cups of her bra. Tony loved that bra. Well, actually, he loved taking it off. She was the one who liked this bra… because Tony liked to take it off. And because it was comfortable and… well, because Tony liked to take it off.

She reached into a drawer for the tank-top and cotton pants she liked to sleep in, and the she was unhooking her bra and tugging at her pants and slipping into the pajamas with a kind of detached meticulousness that almost frightened her. Glancing toward the bathroom, Michelle vaguely considered brushing her teeth but dismissed the idea without ever having really entertained it. Instead, she pulled the earrings out of her ears, unclasped her watch, and let her hair down in a practiced fluid motion, all the while coming nearer and nearer the bed. And then, all of a sudden, she was under the covers.

And she longed for Tony's arms. She was cold. Michelle was often cold, but tonight a deep, bone-chilling cold seemed to penetrate her every extremity. How could she be so cold when she was in her warm bed, under her warm blanket? How could she be so cold when she was alive, and safe in her own, soft bed?

But she was cold, so cold. Tony knew how she got cold and his warm, strong arms would wrap around her body and fold her into him, and she would go limp against his warming touch and feel comforted.

Tonight, though: what was there to defer her cold? She needed Tony's arms. She needed his arms to wrap around her and keep her warm. She needed to feel his hot breath against her neck, his voice whispering softly that everything would be all right. She needed his hands to cup her face and wipe away her tears. She needed to feel his body next to hers as she held him close. But mostly, she needed his arms to keep her warm.

But Tony's arms didn't encircle her cold, shaking form. So she lay there by herself: cold, so cold, and finally fell asleep as exhaustion managed to overpower the unyielding pain that was desperate to keep her awake and afraid.

* * *

It was midmorning the following day when Jack Bauer knocked on the door of Michelle Dessler and Tony Almeida's house. Not really expecting Michelle to answer, he waited only briefly before determining that it was useless. With the key that Tony had given him not long after the couple had bought the home, Jack let himself into the still, quiet building.

He could see evidence of where Michelle had come in the night before: her keys, her laptop, and her purse left a haphazard trail through the house. "Michelle?" he called softly, entering into the living room.

She wasn't there; in fact, no lights were on and as he moved into the kitchen he saw no traces of the coffee upon which Michelle was so hopelessly dependent. So he went uneasily down the hallway to the master bedroom, knocking quietly on the not-quite-latched door.

When Michelle didn't answer, he pushed the door open so he could see her disconcertingly fragile-looking form under the covers, her flushed face half-turned into the pillow. Uncomfortable, he approached the bed and said again, "Michelle?"

She remained asleep, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Michelle," he said, more firmly this time. In response, she shifted, rolling onto her front and moaning softly as she pressed her fingers to her temples.

"Michelle, you okay?"

"I'm cold," she whispered, not looking directly at him—or at anything, for that matter. She seemed unfocused, out of it.

"You gonna be okay?" asked Jack gently.

"I'm fine," she muttered, shoving back the blanket and sitting up, "Is Tony… where is he? Do you know if…" she trailed off, not wanting to finish the question that, she knew, would become a statement— a _sentence_­—all too soon.

"That's why I'm here," stated Jack simply as he offered a hand to help her up. She reached for the proffered hand and lifted herself into a standing position, grabbing her bathrobe as she asked impatiently,

"So what's going on with him?"

"They took him over to Federal yesterday afternoon. They got their paperwork in order and he's officially under arrest for treason."

"Oh my god," Michelle breathed as she made for the kitchen in search of coffee. Jack followed her, concerned, and reached for her elbow as a moment of dizziness caused her to pause. Steadying her, Jack and guided her into the kitchen.

When she reached the room, Michelle turned to look him directly in the eyes, though tears hovered perilously close to falling from her own. "Can I see him?" she asked, her voice sounding strangled and choked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You're gonna have to talk to Hammond."

" Hammond," she said with distaste, "He's held our relationship against Tony ever since we got married, and now…." Unable to finish, Michelle sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her head into her hand. Eyeing her with apprehension, Jack turned toward the coffee maker to start it for her.

"Look, Michelle. Tony asked me last night… he told me to make sure you were okay. That's why I came so early…" he paused; it was a rare moment of vulnerability for them both. "I was worried about you," he finished finally.

"I'm fine," she said tightly, and a little too quickly. "But, uh… thanks."

"You said you were cold…." He stated uncertainly, his words dangling in ambiguity between statement and question.

"Yeah, it's just that…I… I'm not… I've felt better in my life."

"Yeah," he said unaffectedly, and the ensuing silence was entirely uncomfortable, neither one of them sure what they should be saying. Michelle was reluctant to admit her vulnerabilities to anyone but Tony, and Jack was just as much a coworker as a friend. But then, he was among the closest friends that she and Tony had— for no reason so much as that he _was_ a coworker—because he lived in their world.

Michelle was the one to break the silence, at last. "I, uh… I should make some phone calls. Find out what I can about what's going on with Tony."

"Good. If you're okay with it, I'm going to stay a few more hours, just to… Tony just asked me to…"

With a weak smile, Michelle managed to nod and cut in, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd appreciate that, Jack. Thanks."

Clearly relieved that she wasn't viewing his presence as an intrusion, Jack turned back toward the kitchen. "So… why don't you make those calls and I'll see if you keep any food in this house…"

"I don't," she called over her shoulder as she went into the study with her cell phone, "Tony does," she whispered softly, willing the tears not to fall.

Jack, in the next room, remained silent. What the hell did you say to something like that, after all?

* * *

Ninety minutes later, Michelle was finally hanging up the phone. She'd spent the entirety of that time locked in the study with her cell—her cell, because its caller ID read "Agent Dessler" instead of "Michelle and Tony Almeida"— maneuvering delicately with bureaucrats of whom she was not particularly fond.

She entered the kitchen with a sigh, sipping idly at her coffee and looking with uncertainty at the food on the table. Though hardly in the mood for it, it had been far too long since she'd gotten anything into her body at all, and she knew she had to eat.

"Well?" Jack asked quietly.

"It's going to be three days before I can see him," she choked out resignedly, "Before his arraignment."

"Why so long?" Jack asked without thinking, and then immediately kicked himself for having said what could only make Michelle feel all the worse.

"Interrogation," she said softly; Jack nodded and looked away. They both knew how it worked. No physical torture would be involved; that was reserved for truly dangerous hostiles with mass casualty capabilities and time-sensitive situations. But intensive interrogation, however "traditionally" done, was never pretty.

"It's not going to be a drawn-out trial," she continued, ignoring the implications of her previous statement as best she could. "Almost everything related to the case requires at least a level three or four clearance, so it's going to work differently." Jack nodded, warily taking note of then uncharacteristic dullness in Michelle's face and voice. "But there is good news," she added.

"Yeah?" Jack murmured questioningly.

"Because it's all tied up with the sting operation and the sensitivity of all the information relative to the case, everything's going to be kept under wraps. So at least we're not going to have to deal with public reaction."

Relaxing into a smile of relief, Jack nodded approvingly. "That's good." The truth was that he'd been most worried about what the publicity of the case would do to Tony and Michelle. They spent their careers in the thick of dangerous, explosive situations, stopping everything from potentially massive civilian casualties of the more serious terror threats to the almost equally dangerous business of fabricated "evidence" that terrorists used to wreak havoc among the government. But whether they were stopping a deadly pandemic or a major war, Michelle and Tony—and, for that matter, the whole of CTU—forwent getting any credit at all for anything that they did. So Jack had been truly disgusted at the thought of Michelle and Tony, two people who had, time and again, gone through hell for the American people with no acknowledgment whatsoever, would be dragged through the mud for the one time things went wrong.

The ringing of Michelle's phone pulled Jack from his thoughts, and as she read the text message Jack looked at her inquisitively. " Hammond wants the two of us at a meeting in forty minutes," she explained, "You should be getting the call in—"

Michelle was cut off by Jack's phone. Reading his own message, he nodded. "Guess this is when we find out what the hell happens to us after yesterday."

Michelle nodded silently, taking another sip of coffee. "You should probably go, then."

"Yeah," he said, rising. "I'll see you soon, then."

"Okay."

Jack turned to leave, and his hand was on the knob by the time Michelle called out, "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you… for coming by."

"Yeah," he said simply; and, making his goodbye with the slightest nod of the head, left. Sighing, Michelle dropped the coffee cup in the sink and went back to the living room, where she found herself collapsing onto the couch, drained with effort of appearing relatively stable.

She knew that Jack was there because Tony had asked him to—mostly, she knew, he'd been sent to make sure she was okay. But she also knew that what Jack told Tony about how she'd been holding up this morning was what Tony would take for how well she was handling things.

And she was the last thing he needed to be worrying about right now. So she'd managed to maintain her façade for Jack. But he was gone now, and she tucked herself under the blanket on the couch, trying not to shiver any more than she could help. Her head ached and she was cold, colder than she had ever remembered being before.

She knew that in part, at least, it was physical—it wasn't unusual for her to end up with a fever for a few days following an extended period of unrelenting work and suffocating pressure. But the cold she was feeling was partly just that—coldness.

The warmth of her soul lay in Tony, lay in whatever relative security he offered her. The warmth of her heart lay in Tony's, where she'd given so much love. And she knew that all the warmth in her had gone with Tony—leaving her with nothing more than the hard, professional shell and a scared, lonely, empty interior. Hollowness is cold, and the coldness seemed to radiate from the innermost depths of her being and penetrate to her feverish body so that coldness was all she could feel—coldness and numbness; for along with her warmth, Tony had taken all her feeling with him.

But it was a deep cold, so deep that she let it freeze her. Let it numb her. And how much easier that was! Not to have to feel this chilling cold of loss. To take a shower, and pull back her hair, and step into the slim-cut navy blue suit. To slip on her shoes, and take her purse, and drive to Division for the meeting that would determine her future. To deaden all emotion, and succumb to the blessedly hard-cut world of her work.


	3. Repercussions

**A/N:** _Some of the events of my story _A Conflict of Interest_ are vaguely alluded to in this chapter, but it is not at all necessary to have read it. Just a note for regular readers. Oh, also-- there are certain topics I'm spending only a few sentences on (namely, in this chapter, how Michelle feels about Tony's protectiveness) because I explored them at length in _A Conflict of Interest_. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Please leave feedback-- I'm having a tough time with the next few chapters, so any input as well as comments would be appreciated. _

* * *

**Chapter Two: Repercussions**

"Bauer," Hammond was saying, "I don't care. It's paid leave until we have documented proof that this habit is _over_, and then we'll talk about whether you still have anything to do with CTU. For now, however, it's not open for discussion."

"Brad—"

"That will be all for now, Jack." When he made no move to leave, Hammond added pointedly, "Would you excuse us."

"Fine." Jack stood, a violent look in his eyes, and left the conference room without another word.

"Now, Michelle."

"Yes?"

"Tony is obviously no longer running CTU, and Jack won't be involved for several months at best, if he's ever approved to go back in. You're next in command."

"Yes," she said again, simply.

"Mistakes were made yesterday. Costly mistakes. But your overall performance was distinguished, and you're looking at a rank-status upgrade."

Michelle nodded shortly. "To what?" He turned a binder toward her, showing the paperwork for the upgrade. Masking her shock, she managed to answer, "That's… that's fairly major, Brad."

"The bottom line is," he said, acting as though without interruption, "That it's almost entirely definite that you're going to take over CTU. Things are a mess right now, and we can't afford bringing in someone who's not familiar with the system and personnel."

"Brad, what is it you're trying to say, here?"

"Michelle, I have my reservations about you because of your relationship with Agent Almeida."

"Marriage," Michelle cut in, "It's a marriage."

"Semantics," Hammond dismissed, "I'm trying to tell you that for whatever reason, the people above me were impressed with what you did yesterday and they want to see you in charge. But make no mistake about it: you're going to need my blessing."

Resisting the almost irrepressible urge to tap her pen in impatience, Michelle managed to keep her professional veneer intact. "Please get to the point, Brad."

"What I'm saying is this: you're currently Acting Director at CTU, and it's not going to be long before your position is officiated and your rank status is raised accordingly. That's what all of my higher-ups want, and there's nothing I can do about it. But I don't like the situation, so if I were you, I would make very certain not to screw up _anything_. Do you understand my point…Miss Dessler?"

"Are you threatening me, Brad?" Michelle asked coolly, her eyes locked on his.

"No, I'm not," he returned, "I'm telling you that you have a choice, here. It's CTU or Tony—you can't have both. Either you assume responsibility as Director and put that first or you can concentrate on Tony, but it has to be one or the other."

"Excuse me?" she asked, fighting to keep the mask over her disbelief. Was he honestly saying that if she kept the job that was rightfully hers, he was going to try to keep her from Tony?

"What are you going to do, Michelle?"

Jesus, he was as serious as always. Her mind was working quickly. Her first instinct was to say Tony, without hesitation. But there were other things to be considered. Did she really know that if she did that, Hammond wouldn't still try to get between them? Knowing him, it was as likely as not. More importantly, there was a bigger picture to worry about. If she knew anything, it was that CTU was in turmoil, and it was going to need a strong leader. She wasn't willing to forfeit that to someone unfamiliar with not only the agency itself, but with the staff. She owed it to them to remain in her position; to give them some stability. And, after all, she couldn't afford to take a pay cut; not now. Not to mention that, when you got down to it, Hammond's ability to interfere with her and Tony was going to be limited. It wasn't a choice, really.

"I'm going to be Director," replied Michelle after a brief pause.

"That's your decision?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Paperwork for rank status upgrade is ready…" he paused and handed her a folder, which she reached for. Opening it, she began looking over the documents. "And," he continued, "You are the special agent in charge of the Counterterrorist Unit, Los Angeles branch. We'll have the paperwork sorted out in a few days."

* * *

Driving from Division back to CTU— _her_ agency, she couldn't help thinking— she remained uncertain. Whether or not it was wise to question a decision once it was made was irrelevant; she was second-guessing herself and she couldn't help it.

She felt categorically horrible about the decision she'd come to. Tony had committed _treason_ for her, and she was choosing her job over him? When she phrased it that way, it sounded truly awful. But at the same time, she justified, it wasn't as though by choosing to keep her position, she was adversely affecting Tony.

Hammond would try to get between them, and chances were he'd have some success. Bur even that had to be limited; there was only so much he could do, with no real guarantee that he wouldn't do it regardless. Though he'd liked Michelle to begin with, Hammond had harbored feelings of hostility toward Tony since the Nina debacle, and those feelings had only intensified after Tony had become involved with and then married Michelle.

It was hardly that Hammond feared Michelle would be another Nina—on the whole, he liked and respected her. But he felt that romantic involvement was totally inappropriate and had held it against both of them—but especially Tony—since they'd announced their engagement.

So, Michelle reasoned, her decision regarding her job was essentially immaterial to how Hammond would deal with her situation with Tony. And, anyway, there was more to it than that. Loosing both of its heads and countless field agents, having been on active protocols for two days without reprieve, and nearly every person on staff working straight through the entire time— well, CTU was in a tumultuous state at best. Michelle felt that it was her obligation as a professional to see CTU through this hell.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made to her. But that did nothing to dispel the sick feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach. Because though she felt that the choice she'd made had been the right one, it wasn't the choice that Tony would have made. She knew that.

For all the time they'd been together, Tony had been protective; that was just the way he was. Most of the time, it was sweet and comforting: when he would keep his arm around her waist when they walked out at night, or when he would carry her from the couch to the bed when she fell asleep watching the news after a particularly long day. But when he got himself worked up just because she was going into the field, it annoyed her. To be fair, she'd been hurt in the past, once fairly seriously, but she still hated it when he tried to keep her safe at the expense of the job she had to do. Whatever the situation, he was always almost obsessively committed to her well-being. And in the past, she had wondered in her infrequent moments of insecurity, if he loved her more than she did him.

And this—what he was willing to do for her—she knew she wouldn't have done the same. That hurt—it stung with a fire that made her suddenly hot so that in a split-second she went from a feverish chill to feeling every one of the one-hundred-two degrees of heat in her body.

Realizing that she was only a minute or two from entering the CTU parking lot, Michelle blinked back the tears mixing guilt, horror, and fatigue. At a stoplight, she flipped down the mirror and checked her makeup, wiping away the bit of smeared black under her eye and making a mental note to touch up her mascara when she got the chance.

Entering CTU a few minutes later, Michelle was handed a briefing packet by the night-shift head of CTU. The night shift was a minimal team—if there was ever so much as hint of a crisis, the main staff was called in immediately. The extra people had been used the night before for manpower, and then sent home as soon as the virus was secured so that they could relieve the exceptionally overworked and exhausted main staff.

Michelle glanced through the packet, and then looked back up at the night head. "Can you have a briefing for my department heads ready in ten?" He nodded, and with a curt "Good," Michelle was on her way to her office. Logging onto her system and glancing at the screens in her workstation, Michelle was suddenly struck with a thought.

_This wasn't her office anymore._ Well, it was; yes, but as Director, she would be taking over what had been Tony's office. And Michelle was dismayed when she felt a twinge of triumph mix with her regret. She tried to tell herself it hadn't been there, but it was.

Hastening to justify it, she thought: _It's not that I'm even remotely happy about what's happened. This is tearing my life apart, and it's breaking my heart, and I didn't know that it was possible to feel so cold inside. But… that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to be glad for the little bit of good that came out of it, does it? Even if it was at the expense of _him._ But, no, that's not how it is! It's not like the fact that I'm taking this position has anything to do with Tony's… to what happened to Tony. _

And even as her thoughts chased themselves around in circles, she could feel tears glistening in her eyes and she ran a finger lightly along her hairline, mimicking the way Tony did it. It felt nothing like it.

With a deep breath to pull herself together, Michelle glanced at her watch. She had just a few minutes before the briefing started. Not allowing herself the luxury of thinking about her misery, Michelle forced herself to begin looking over the records from the night in preparation for the briefing.

* * *

When she returned from the meeting in the conference area, Michelle looked around what had, since the bombing three years ago, been her office. CTU was not exactly the kind of placepeople hung up pictures oftheir kids. As it was, that would have been pointless for Michelle anyway, since she didn't have kids, and if she wanted to see her husband while she worked all she had to do was glance up and try not to drool.

But in any case, there wasn't much for her to do to move. Transfer a few insignificant files that she hadn't bothered to upload onto the main servers. Collect paperwork—there wasn't a lot of paperwork that was actually made out of paper in CTU, but there was still some—and gather up the notebooks and folders from her desk. Clean out the contents of one drawer. The "personal" drawer. It wasn't very personal, really. It was the kind of thing every sane woman keeps on hand at all times. A box of tampons. A chocolate stash. A bottle of Advil. Extra nylons.

It didn't matter, because the fact remained that she had completely transferred herself to the upper-office in less than fifteen minutes. Terrified by the finality of it all, Michelle was shaking as she sent the memo notifying her staff that she could now be found in the director's office. That was it. Just like that. It was as though Tony had never been there. As though he hadn't given up his life for this job. As though he had disappeared into thin air. But he hadn't! Had he?

* * *

"So what you're telling me, Ms. Dessler, is that the virus is now completely contained?"

"Essentially, Mr. President," Michelle said with an air of authority that, despite all the command she had wielded prior to today, still felt new. "We can't completely rule out the possibility of the appearance of another case for another twenty-four hours, but every person in each quarantine zone has been tested and either released or… isolated."

"Isolated?" he asked, his voice grim.

"Yes, Mr. President. As you know, clinics have been set up across the city for infected citizens, sealed for biohazard. We've done our best to make this as… to prevent as much suffering as we could," she finished, thankful that she'd kept her voice from cracking but painfully aware of the tears glistening in her eyes.

"How many people were infected?"

"Final casualty figure… three thousand four hundred and fifty-three. Six hundred twenty-six of those were children." Her voice had caught, as she choked over the last syllable. Taking a moment, she glanced down at the table and took a few deep breaths.

The president's face contorted as he struggled just as much as she to keep his composure. "Their names?"

"We've sent those to your office, Mr. President."

"Good." Silence ensued. Michelle wondered if they were even going to be able to make it through five more minutes of this videoconference. At length, he continued. "Regarding the reopening of traffic flow…"

* * *

Nearly an hour later, the conference had ended, and Michelle was walking back toward her office. The clicking of her heels resonated all too loudly in her ears, an inescapable reminder of just how real this was. Michelle entered the office, closed the glass door behind her, and sank into a chair. For a moment, she felt as though there might be a chance she could get to work. Just a moment. Her elbows resting on the desk, Michelle dropped her face into cupped hands. For a few seconds, she simply stayed like that, trying hard not to cry. Then, moving suddenly, she reached into the drawer and took out her Advil, shaking out two and swallowing without bothering with water. This headache made her feel as though she could scream, it hurt so badly. And she hoped, vaguely, that the ibuprofen would bring down her fever and stop the damned shaking.

But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. The job—that was what mattered. Gritting her teeth, Michelle reached for the keyboard and got to work

* * *

It was almost midnight, and Michelle was finally getting ready to leave. The rest of the shift had left almost two hours ago; only she and Chloe remained, tying up ends. And so it was Chloe who entered Michelle's office, laptop in hand.

"What is it, Chloe?" Michelle asked, faintly annoyed. She could only hope that there wasn't yet another problem with which she would have to deal before leaving. She needed to get to bed. Badly.

"Are you getting ready to leave?"

"Yes, I am. You should go, too Chloe; get some sleep. Things are going to get worse around here before they get better," Michelle answered distractedly, reaching across the desk to disconnect her laptop.

"Yeah, well," Chloe sighed, standing in the middle of the office awkwardly, "That's usually what happens when an infectious deadly virus is released into the general population."

"Chloe," Michelle said sharply, stopping what she was doing and looking up. "I do _not_ need your sarcasm right now. I just… I'm exhausted; you are too. Let's just wrap up and go home… okay?"

Embarrassed, Chloe bit her lip and looked away. "I wasn't trying to…" her voice trailed off. "I didn't mean to sound that way," she muttered, looking away again. Michelle's features softened. She knew perfectly well Chloe couldn't really help it.

"It's okay, Chloe," she sighed. "Don't worry about it." Michelle went back to gathering her things, periodically turning toward the computer screen to scan a final report she was in the midst of approving. When Chloe made no move to leave, she paused and glanced up. "Did you need something?"

"I…" biting her lip again, Chloe hesitated. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Are you… okay?"

"No." Michelle said flatly as she finished what she was doing and stood, facing Chloe.

"As in… not okay in the sense that you've slept, like, six hours in the past three days or not okay because your husband's in federal prison being charged with treason?"

"I'd rather not get into this right now," Michelle stated tightly, her face blank and yet painfully drawn.

"Fine," Chloe sputtered, turning to leave. But just before she closed the door behind her, she looked back over her shoulder. "But when you do, I'm here."

Rolling her eyes, Michelle picked up her laptop and logged off her system.

* * *

Half an hour later, Michelle was again standing outside her door, and again afraid to enter. Why was it that she wasn't afraid of taking down an armed terrorist by herself, but she was afraid to walk through her own damn door? But asking herself that was just a way of hiding from the truth, because she knew perfectly well why she was afraid. She was afraid to be by herself. She was afraid to face the demons. The events that kept replaying in her mind:

Picking up the phone and hearing Jack's voice. "He's been shot." Suppressing tears and screams and total collapse as she headed the office and gave orders. Coming to the realization that there was no one to whom she could hand over CTU, and trying to save the city, country, world from an infectious and deadly virus while wondering if her husband was going to die, and knowing that she couldn't be there with him, like a wife should.

Tony returning, Michelle finding out that he'd been deceiving her, and realizing that she'd been totally oblivious to that fact. Watching the marriage that both thought—no, _known_—was a strong one rapidly deteriorating as hour after horrific hour slipped by.

Being sent to the Chandler Plaza Hotel, and leading her agents into the possibly infected building against every protocol on the books, and then watching them, one by one, die agonizing deaths, believing that she would follow. Shooting the innocent, frightened civilian as he tried to save himself.

Getting kidnapped, held at knifepoint and gunpoint. Escaping from them by ingenuity and pure determination, only to purposely get herself caught again for the good of the mission. And then finding out what Tony had done to save her… that he had committed treason for her, but also that he had committed treason at all. Tony being taken away, and Michelle feeling a part of her die as he left. And then Michelle being horrified at him for making such an irresponsible, flat-out _bad_ decision, appalled that he could have been responsible for inciting what had happened at the hotel to happen all over the country.

For it was the images of the Chandler Plaza Hotel that haunted her most.

The little girl, no older than eight, bleeding and crying and begging her mommy to make it stop. The mommy dying, and the little girl terrified and in horrible pain, and too scared to take the pills without her mommy to tell her if it was okay. Michelle going to the girl and hugging her, and telling her that she'd see her mommy soon, even though Michelle had never believed in an afterlife. Holding the girl on her lap, squeezing her close, and rocking her back and forth, because someone had to give this little girl human touch. Holding the girl until being called away to deal with a possible security breach. The breach turning out to be nothing, but returning to find the little girl dead.

Michelle found herself crying again, and this time it was for the little girl— Katy, she'd said her name was—and everything she stood for. All the unnecessary death, but not just the death. Death was merciful compared to what that little girl had gone through.

And then Michelle felt anger towards Tony. Up until then, she had been upset that he'd been taken away, dismayed that he'd been arrested, and anguish that he'd been put in the position that he had. But as she stormed into the house, no longer afraid to enter, it was anger that consumed her.

Anger that he had done that—anger that Tony was going to help Saunders, so that what had happened to Katy would happen to thousands of children across the country. Anger that he had put her life above the lives of American citizens when she'd spent the whole day showing in every possible way—from going into the hotel without hazmat gear to allowing herself to be caught after she'd escaped from her kidnappers—that she valued innocent lives far more than her own. But he'd ignored that. He'd ignored what she wanted, and he'd ignored basic ethics—and that made Michelle furious at him, more furious than she'd ever remembered being.

What made him think she wanted to be forced into accepting the guilt of being that for which he martyred his happiness? And that for which the world came to a screeching halt? For what if, because Tony had chosen her above all else, the virus had been released and millions of people had died? What in hell made Tony think he had the right to do that? Not only to saddle her with the guilt of the deaths of all those people, but to cause those deaths in the first place? The thought that her husband—the man she'd loved to oblivion, and the man she'd had every reason to believe was as devoted to the greater good as she—that he had done what he did held a grip on her like nothing else ever had.

But when Michelle finally made it into the kitchen, the anger evaporated instantly and was replaced with fresh tears. Because as she entered the kitchen, images began to flash through her head. Tony laughing at her inability to cut a tomato. Tony making dinner as she sat at the counter with a glass of wine. Tony creeping up behind her and whispering into her ear. Tony holding her while she cried, stricken with guilt from the first time she herself had had to use torture. Tony submitting to her when she pounced on him one night and they had sex on the kitchen floor.

And in that moment, she hated herself for being angry with Tony. Tony, whom she loved more than life itself. Tony, whose presence brought light and security to the dark and perilous life she'd inadvertently chosen. Tony, who had sacrificed everything so she could live. How could she be angry with him for that? How could she be angry with him when she loved and needed and missed him so much?

Michelle was far too physically drained and emotionally exhausted to understand her own feelings at that time, but even if she hadn't been it was doubtful that she'd have been able to sort through them. A mad mess of emotions tangled among each other and tugged at her this way and that, but the truth was that in retrospect, she could lump it all together in one word: pain. Pain for all the unspeakable horrors she'd witnessed and experienced that terrible day.

* * *

"I can't make that meeting."

"Michelle, you do realize how important this is to building Tony's case." the defense attorney said pointedly, an accusing note in her voice.

"Yeah, I realize it. Believe me: I realize it. But right now, I have exceptionally important issues that need to be dealt with. I can't make the meeting," she sighed, reaching up to twist a curl around her finger.

"More important than your husband's trial for treason?"

Staring into blankness, Michelle paused a lengthy moment. "Yes," she said finally, looking up although there was no one there to meet her eyes.

* * *

Michelle was on the phone with the lawyer for almost two hours that night, so that by the time she finally crawled into bed it was nearly three in the morning. She was shivering with cold as she burrowed into the bed that felt so unnaturally big and empty. Struggling to control the shaking, Michelle wished with a pang of loss for Tony's warm body to envelop her and keep her safe.

But he wasn't there, of course. No. Of course not. He was in prison, right then. Prison… and it was because of her. Because of her. Too weak and tired to keep the thought from assaulting her, Michelle could feel guilt crashing down on her like the massive swell of a whitecap breaking against her.

If it wasn't for her, this never would have happened to Tony. Even then, Michelle was fully aware of how irrational and childish the idea was, but as she lay in the empty darkness, trembling from loneliness and fright and utter emotional exhaustion just as much as from fever, she was powerless to reign in control over her own emotions.

And so she was consumed by guilt for the position in which Tony had been put. After all, it was she whom Tony had loved past the point of responsibility, and therefore she who had ultimately, if inadvertently, been the cause of the whole mess. It was her fault, somehow, she was certain. Just exactly what she could have done to prevent the situation evaded her, but that did nothing to lessen the overwhelming feeling of fault she placed in herself.

And the situation—what a damning situation it was! He was in prison, now, because of the choice he'd made, and while Michelle was no expert, she knew enough to know that prison was a hellish place at best—and that was the place to which Tony had gone, for her.

And now, as he husband suffered god-knows-what kind of misery, she was left to save the world all by herself, terrified and lonely and so very, very cold.

* * *

Too soon, the alarm clock forced Michelle back into the realm of wakefulness. Light flooded her bedroom—as if to mock the darkness that had managed to take over every corner of her life over those few short days that seemed to span an eternity.

Awakening, Michelle felt dampness against her face. Though hours had passed, her pillow was still soaked with tears from Michelle crying herself to sleep the night before.

The persistent beeping of the alarm reminded Michelle that there were more pressing matters to be addressed. Groaning, she managed to disentangle herself from the covers and drag her aching, shivering body into a standing position as she prepared to start the day.

It took no longer than an hour for Michelle to transform herself from the exhausted, tearful, and undone woman that she was to the impeccably groomed and emotionally masked professional in a business suit and carefully blank expression.


	4. Cold

**A/N: **_First of all, I apologize for the long wait on this chapter. I was away for quite a while and couldn't write. Anyway.When I say I value your input, I mean it. There was a lot of reaction to Michelle's refusal to attend the meeting with the lawyer, and hearing it, I agree that it was OOC. Read on; her motivation is explained midway through the chapter. _Please_ keep up the criticism, good and bad._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Three: Cold**

Work that day was an indistinct blur to Michelle. A blur of remaining resolutely stoic as she gave orders. As she managed data flow. As she worked up intel. As she communicated with other agencies. As she dealt with massive amounts of paperwork.

But there was something comforting about the emotionless coldness of it all. Michelle found that while she worked, she was able to focus her mind in its entirety on the tasks at hand, forming an impermeable barrier of impassivity that allowed no room for her own thoughts and feelings to seep into her consciousness. That was why she was still in her office, working furiously and stubbornly refusing to go home, late into the night.

There was one thing she knew for absolute certain: that the moment even a tiny section of her brain stopped focusing on her work, her emotions would rush in to fill the void. Michelle continued to torture herself with work long past the time she should have gone home simply because she wanted to avoid the torture of letting pain clench its cold fist around her heart.

But even Michelle had her limits. She could only work so many eighteen-hour shifts before exhaustion overcame her. And so she reached a point when she just couldn't do it anymore, simply hadn't the energy to stay awake and alert anymore— she had to go home to sleep.

For the drive home, determination allowed her to keep her thoughts focused on work: how she would deal with this problem or that, which protocol a situation necessitated, whether it was worth trying to effectively coordinate with certain agencies. She didn't let herself think about how Tony, while he drove home after a particularly stressful shift, would rub his thumb on her palm in slow circles. She didn't let herself think about how he'd unexpectedly kiss her at a stoplight for no reason at all. She didn't let herself think about the soft, intimate conversations ranging from what to have for dinner to what it felt like to kill a person that had all transpired within this car.

No, in the car, she was still in a zone somewhere between work and home. The emotions couldn't reach her yet.

She couldn't drive forever, though. Pulling up in front of her house, Michelle was not, as last time, afraid to enter. She was still numbed from work, still too cold to let herself think about what entering meant.

She opened the door. She stepped inside. And the pain hit.

She wasn't angry anymore. The anger had reduced to a dull ember that, while still there, wasn't really part of her consciousness anymore. She just felt… lost. And cold. Something about the house seemed to thaw her. It must have been all the warmth she and Tony had given this home. But now that same warmth was melting her.

There was just enough lingering warmth in the house to break through the numbness. Just enough that she could once again feel the cold. Because the cold could not be penetrated by the warmth; only the real, tangible warmth of Tony could do that.

It was cruel, what being at home did. It made her aware of her pain, and then intensified it with reminders of the life they'd built here. The feeling of loss was overwhelming, the fear of what was happening to _him_ even more so.

Michelle Dessler was scared.

This was not a woman who frightened easily. This was a woman who wouldn't bat an eyelash at taking down a terrorist or two in hand to hand combat. A woman who remained calm as she handled crises that threatened to change the world as it was known. A woman who could do her job unfalteringly even as she stared death in the eye.

But she was scared now. She felt _lost_. A thousand people had died before her eyes, and she'd been helpless to stop it. She'd been the one in charge, the "Agent Dessler" to whom hotel staff and guests looked to for reassurance and help. And she'd been the one to tell them that they were all going to die.

If nothing else did, that had the power to leave Michelle traumatized. Not much could traumatize a CTU agent; that could. And she was frightened. She needed someone to comfort her. She needed the husband she'd come so very close to losing to comfort her.

But that husband— the man whom she loved and needed so much—he wasn't there to offer comfort. He was in prison, because he'd loved her. _Prison._ Michelle had put a lot of people in prison. She'd felt a grim satisfaction that the monsters would be locked away, never to see the light of day, and reduced to the most lowly, degrading, and miserable life. That was where her Tony was. That was where all the warmth in her was. That was where the man she loved with a love she hadn't known possible was. That was where Tony was being locked away. And why? Because of her.

Michelle Dessler was scared.

She was scared of her thoughts, and scared of herself after all that had happened that day; no one was there to help her through it. She was scared about what was happening to Tony, and scared of what would become of him. Of them.

Because she didn't know what would happen to him. She didn't know if he'd ever be a free man again. She knew that the chances that he'd ever hold her in his arms again were slim. If she was so scared, so empty without him to comfort her these few nights, what would happen to her when she'd be without him for a lifetime?

Michelle Dessler was scared.

* * *

Feeling sick to her stomach and exhausted out of her mind, Michelle was not pleased at the prospect of having to eat a meal. But she knew she had to; it had been days since she'd really eaten.

Michelle glanced at her watch. Ten-thirty. If she ate dinner, she could still be in bed before midnight and get six hours of sleep. There was no denying it: she had to eat.

Mashed potatoes. She wanted mashed potatoes. There were good reasons for this. Firstly, there wasn't much else to eat in the house. Secondly, she needed comfort food. And thirdly, cutting potatoes was one of the few culinary tasks Tony allowed her to undertake.

Michelle could even peel a potato. Well, sort of. Not with a knife, like a normal halfway-competent adult, but a peeler worked. And then she could cut the potatoes; that, at least, was a simple task.

Clearly, however, it wasn't simple enough because as she Michelle was cutting, the knife slipped. _"Damn!"_ The sharp blade sliced through her hand, reopening the gash, just beginning to heal, that she'd used to fake a nosebleed two days ago. And it _hurt._ "Ow, god_damn_it!" she choked.

She wasn't sure why the pain was getting to her so much. She'd experienced physical pain a hell of a lot worse than a cut on the hand throughout her years at CTU. But for whatever reason, the pain sent her crashing onto the couch dissolved in tears. "Damnit!" she said again.

She was crying, crying and hysterical. She realized, as blood flowed out of her, that she was so upset because no amount of physical pain could ever come close to the pain wrenching her heart.

* * *

She was still crying when she heard her phone ring. Gasping for breath, she fought to control herself enough so that her voice could remain emotionless over the phone. Running her hand down her face a final time, Michelle answered, "Dessler."

"Joyce Patterson here."

Michelle sat dumbly, trying to recall who that was. After a few moments, it hit her. The defense attorney. "Thanks for calling."

"Yes. Well. It certainly would have been preferable for you to meet with my staff and me today."

The tones of contempt and blame in the woman's voice were cutting deep into Michelle. It was the accusations being hurled at her from this outsider, this woman who had no idea of the situation she'd been in, that had the power to push her over the edge. "I was dealing with the aftermath of a serious national security crisis. I couldn't. I lost _dozens_ of agents over the past three days. That includes four of the top five ranking officers from the agency, _and _the regional director. Wait until _you _are literally the only one left to run a government agency. And you have more body bags than you can count. And there is citywide panic. And you're still trying to find out whether or not there is more of the most deadly threat ever faced still in the wrong hands. And you have your agency working insanely to find out if you're still at risk. All this while you have bureaucrat assholes on you about goddamn _paperwork_ when you're trying to keep any more people from dying than already have. When you have been in that position, _then_ talk to me about what is 'preferable.'"

Silence ensued. Michelle was frozen, horrified at her outburst, but unable to say anything more, because she simply didn't know what _to_ say. It was nearly a minute before the other woman spoke.

"I'm meeting with Tony tomorrow. It would help if you were there."

Unnerved by Patterson's total lack of comment on her explosion, Michelle found herself suddenly unable to fight any longer. "I'll do everything I can to be there," she said softly. And then she hung up.

Michelle was numb as she tossed the phone onto the counter and slowly made her way to the bathroom to deal with the cut on her hand. As she'd been shouting into the phone all the reasons she hadn't been able to get away long enough to meet with the lawyer, it had been on the tip of her tongue to cry that there were hundreds of thousands of lives on the line, and she was responsible for protecting them.

But that wasn't true anymore. Her own words from the day before rang through her head: "Every person in each quarantine zone has been tested and either released or isolated." Why had she not understood those words when she told them to the president?

It was over. The aftermath was massive and serious, but the threat itself was over. Every move she made was no longer going to spell life or death for thousands of innocents. And yet the urgency remained, the feeling that every second counted, the feeling that everything she did was pivotal.

Michelle was too far gone to understand it at the time, but the utter intensity of that single day had traumatized her more than she'd known. Its residue was strong, prevalent; it was that residue that kept her state of mind trapped where it had been when the virus threat was imminent.

As she'd hung up the phone, it had hit Michelle that if she'd left to meet with the lawyer the day before, CTU would have managed. The thought made her so ashamed that she wanted to cry, and even though she was all alone she could feel her face growing hot. CTU would have been okay if she'd gone. She could have gone. She _should_ have gone. And she could have.

The weight of the idea was overpowering. _She could have been there_. But she hadn't been. She'd still felt—honestly and thoroughly felt, with everything in her—that her presence at CTU was categorically necessary to innocent life. She'd still been trapped in the state of mind she'd had during the threat. Though the threat was gone, her mind hadn't reacted to that.

Numbness overtook her as she stood there and the reality of the present swept over her tired mind.

* * *

That night, Michelle had a dream. In the dream, she was holding a baby in her arms, and it was Tony pointing the gun at the child and pulling the trigger. She'd screamed, but then felt the bullet melt through the infant into herself, embedding itself into her abdomen, but leaving the pure life unharmed. She'd dropped to the ground in pain, keeping the baby clutched tightly to her. Tony had run up to them and wrested the baby from her arms, holding the tiny body up triumphantly and looking down at Michelle. "This is how you wanted it, isn't it?" 

When she woke up, she was shaking uncontrollably. Throwing back the covers, she pulled herself into the chill air of the bedroom. She ignored the tears trickling down her face and began searching in the very back of the closet.

Finally, she found it. The worn cotton bunny, dubbed Memee by Michelle when she was all of fourteen months old, looked up at her with knowing button eyes. Michelle buried her face in the rabbit, and then, squeezing it to her chest, went back to bed.

* * *

Michelle zipped the charcoal-gray skirt of her suit, and then slipped the coordinating jacket over her black top. She looked in the mirror. Neat. Attractive. Professional. Completely and utterly impersonal.

Exactly the way she needed to be.

At CTU forty minutes later, that was what she was. "Just do it, Chloe." "Adam, I need that search completed _now_." "I've got my people working on it, Brad." "Just do it, Chloe." "Kim, I need you focused." "That's confirmed? I'll work it up." "Just do it, Chloe." "Would you please just get it done?" "I appreciate your good work." "Just do it, Chloe."

Barely in her office at all, Michelle was out on the floor giving orders and overseeing subordinates and turning the nearest workstation when something needed to get done. That was how it was at CTU. She was needed a hell of a lot more on the floor than locked away in a glass box, and so that's where she was.

Brisk, efficient, and above all cool, Michelle kept the office running smoothly—well, as smoothly as CTU was capable of running. Well aware that she was restoring to CTU the order so desperately lacking in her own life, Michelle reasoned that some good might as well come out of her screwed-up life.

The product was remarkable, Michelle found. Under her direction, CTU was already pulling itself up by the bootstraps, already functioning again. Still on active protocol, it was too soon for the restructuring that was sure to follow. But Michelle had things running beautifully under the circumstances.

* * *

"Damnit…" Michelle muttered indistinctly as the bobby pin slipped from her mouth. After reaching for another, she stabbed it through her hair, trying to tame her hair back into its bun. It _never_ stayed in place for a whole day. It was getting to be too much damn work….

Securing her hair, Michelle took a final glance in the hand mirror. She looked pale and tired, despite her last-minute efforts with mascara and blush. This was as good as it was going to get.

As she stepped out of the car, Michelle straightened her skirt and wished she was wearing anything but this cold, gray business suit. Not exactly heartening. But she'd been in a hurry, having barely managed to pry herself from situations constantly needing her attention in order to be here at all.

Getting past security was easier than it necessarily should have been. Apparently, guards are more yielding to those who outrank their superior's superior.

After Michelle had gotten through the outer layers of security, she was met by a blonde woman, tall, with an air of confidence that matched Michelle's own. "Michelle Dessler?"

"I'm she."

The other woman extended a manicured hand. "Joyce Patterson. Nice to meet you."

"You too. I'm sorry I couldn't meet with you earlier.

Patterson nodded. "It's fine. I've been doing a lot of research on CTU for this case, and I'm starting to see that it takes professional obligations to a whole new level."

"We do what we have to do," Michelle replied with a small but genuine smile. She appreciated Patterson's peace offering— it would be necessary for the two of them to have a decent relationship if they were going to make it through this trial.

"Indeed we do."

A short, uncomfortable silence followed. Michelle broke it. "Let's head in." With a short nod of agreement, Patterson stepped back and allowed Michelle to enter first.

They both knew this was an unusual arrangement. At that point, Tony wasn't technically allowed contact with anyone other than his defense counsel, and how Michelle had managed to authorize her presence Patterson did not know. But she had, at any rate, and now she was entering the small, barren room containing two guards and Tony Almeida.

A small sound escaped Michelle's throat as she saw him. She froze in the doorway as he lifted his eyes and locked them on hers. She felt something tear inside of her as she saw the defeat and desperation in written there.

"Michelle?" he said softly, and tears filled her eyes.

"Tony…." she whispered, still frozen to the ground.

"C'mere, sweetheart." The next thing she knew he had his arms around her. _Oh my god._ She was clinging to him tightly, clinging to him with everything in her. She could feel the tears wetting his neck, but she didn't care. The tears made him ache—not a dull ache, but a deep, swelling, overpowering ache. His hand, which had been running hungrily through her hair, pulled her head into his shoulder. "Baby, I'm here."

"Tony…" her voice was choked. "Tony." Damnit, why couldn't she make her lips form any words but his name?

"Michelle baby… sweetheart… I love you."

"I love you, Tony. I love you so much," she managed to say into his neck. "Oh god, Tony, I love you so much."

"Michelle…"

"Oh god, Tony."

Finally, they separated, and he put his hands on her shoulders. "No matter what happens, sweetheart… I will always love you."

"I'll always love _you_," she whispered. And then they had to pull apart.

* * *

To call the meeting depressing would be akin to calling hell a bit warm. Michelle's legal vocabulary was no more than proficient, and she didn't follow all of what Patterson was explaining. The gist of it, though, was clear. What she understood all too clearly was that Tony's chances of acquittal were slim, but that he had enough going for him that if he was convicted, it would be on the lightest possible terms. Twenty goddamn years. How very comforting.

But Michelle was not going to give up hope so easily. She was hanging on to the possibility, however slight, that he might not be found guilty. And if he was… well, there was always the chance of a presidential pardon. She knew that Tony— and she herself, for what it was worth—were most definitely on Palmer's good side, and then, too, Palmer respected Jack more than maybe anyone, and Jack was on their side... yes, their chances of a pardon were decent.

Oh, who the hell was she trying to kid, anyway? Tony had planned a major sting operation behind the president's back. Behind _her_ back, a voice inside her head added. She vehemently willed it to shut up. The point was, Palmer was pissed. Sure, he was happy about the final result, but he was still pissed. Hell.

There was no chance during the meeting—they had a time limit—for them to talk about anything personal. It was all business. But more emotion could be expressed in the looks they exchanged than in any words they'd have been able to say.

He didn't ask her how she was holding up, because he could tell. After her initial breakdown, he'd seen her emotionless, professional mask go up, and he knew that was how she was getting through the days. And underneath that, he could see the pain in her eyes. He could tell that she felt guilty by the way she held her hands more rigidly than usual. He could tell that she was still upset and inwardly vulnerable by the way she held her back just a little straighter than necessary. He could tell that she resented the choice he'd made by the way she blinked every time the action itself was mentioned. He could tell how much she missed him by the way she kept glancing from her wedding ring to him, assuring herself that he was really there. He could tell how scared she was by the way her fingers lingered on stray curls as she tucked them back in place.

She didn't ask him if he was okay, because it was abundantly clear that he wasn't. She could tell that he was defeated by the way he held his head straight instead of at a tilt. She could tell that he was afraid about what was going to happen because he didn't once scratch his neck. She could tell he was worn down by the way he leaned to one side of the chair. And she could tell he missed her just by the aching gaze of his eyes.

The subtlest of signs, they all were, but signs Michelle and Tony knew how to read instinctively. They'd been so intimately close that these subtle things, contradictory signs were things that they could understand. All this information could be taken in, all these emotions understood without thinking, without processing. They just _knew._

But there was still more to say. Years at CTU had taught them how to concentrate fully on two things at once. So as they were actively listening to and participating in the discussion with Patterson, they were carrying conversations with their eyes.

A raised eyebrow and slightly accusing look: _You're sick._

A glance at the wrists she knew he'd felt for a fever earlier: _Yeah._ An intent gaze: _I'll be fine._

An observation of Michelle's finger touching her wedding band: _Sweetheart, I will come home to you no matter what. _

A pair of sad eyes straying to handcuffs and then back up to his, pleadingly: _I hope so._

An intense stare locked on Michelle: _I love you. _

A glistening tear: _I know. _A firm setting of the jaw: _We will get through this._

A glance at his surroundings: _Yeah._

A tightening of neck muscles: _We _will_. We have to. _

* * *

Leaving the room, Michelle again shook hands with Joyce Patterson. "We'll be in touch."

"Of course."

Clearing outgoing security, Michelle struggled to hold it together until she'd left the building. Finally, finally, she was safe in the confines of her car. There, she put her head in her hands and burst into tears.

The sobs wracked her body; she didn't even try to stop. Seeing Tony like that… seeing him degraded like that, in prison… she couldn't stand it. He'd handed his life over to this job, sacrificed everything... everything except for her. _Don't think about that._ How many years of his life had he given up to CTU? Ten? Eleven? And five years in the marines before that? All those years handed to the government on a silver platter. All those years robbed of security and freedom and any sense of normalcy.

They had taken all that… no, it wasn't taken. It was _given._ Tony had willingly given up fifteen years of his life now, willingly given it over to the common good. And now they were putting him in prison. Now they'd locked him up just like they locked up the people he'd devoted his life to stopping.

That tore apart Michelle more than she could bear. It was killing her to see Tony like that. It wasn't _fair._ In her line of work, Michelle knew more than anybody how unfair life was. But that did nothing to take the sting away. It did nothing to salve the open wound of what was happening to Tony.

And what of what was happening to her? Her life felt so…_pointless_ without him in it. Tony made her feel alive in a way she never had before. And he… he understood her, and he understood her life. They lived together in this mad world of CTU. But without him… without him, why bother? She was cold again. She was so cold. She shivered and rubbed her arms.

With a shuddering sigh, Michelle finally began to calm herself down so she would be able to drive. It took her a few minutes before her breathing was regular and her eyes were clear of tears so that she was, at last, able to pull out of the parking lot and go home.

* * *

After Michelle had eaten and stripped down to her panties and a tank-top, she plopped herself on the bed with her back against the headboard and drew her knees up to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she stared blankly into the emptiness of the room.

Seeing Tony had been both wonderful and awful, and the intensity of it all had left her drained. She'd been relieved to see him again, had felt everything in her giving way as he wrapped his arms around her and she sank into his chest. But at the same time… at the same time, it was chilling. To see what he'd been reduced to had shaken her more than she'd have liked to admit.

And she missed him. After getting that brief glimpse of him, she just needed him more. She was so cold, so tired, so scared. Tony was the only person who had ever made her feel safe, the only person who understood her and what CTU did to her, because it had done the same to him.

And so, wallowing in her own loneliness, Michelle stayed silently, drawn into herself, upon the bed. When some minutes had passed, she dropped her head onto her knees; it just felt too heavy to hold up anymore. Hot tears dripped from her eyes, dampening her bare legs.

From the table, Michelle heard the ringing of her phone. She was horrified— she could only imagine what she must look like to someone else right then. Some poor, pathetic woman sitting on her bed half naked, hunched down like a child, crying. What had happened to the polished professional of just a few hours ago?

Trying to bring herself back to a halfway-acceptable state, Michelle disentangled her limbs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. With a final attempt at drying her tears, Michelle concluded that this was as good as it was going to get and picked up the phone.

"This is Dessler," she said evenly.

"Michelle, it's Jack."

"Jack."

"Yeah. You saw Tony today?" Michelle paused for a moment as the memory washed over her. Fresh tears stung her eyes, and she struggled to blink them back. Jack's voice came over the phone again, a little concerned this time. "Michelle?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here, Jack. I saw him."

Quietly, Jack asked, "How was he?"

Michelle briefly considered lying, but what was the use? Jack was a hard man to deceive, and in truth she didn't really see the point. It was what it was.

"He looked…" she paused, searching for the word. "Defeated."

Jack exhaled. "Yeah."

"He… it was like… he'd just given up, Jack. I… Jack, I thought when I was with him I'd be warm again, but I was just as cold as…" she trailed off, realizing how strange that must sound.

"What?"

"Never mind. I just feel like… Jack, I was happy to see him, but it seemed like a light inside him went off. Or something. God, I'm not good at this."

"Michelle, it's okay."

"No, it's not. Look, I'm really sorry I'm such a mess right now; this isn't how I'd have wanted—"

"Michelle!" He cut her off. "Michelle, it's fine. You're in a tough position. You just deal with it the best you can."

Unable to form a response to that, Michelle was silent.

"Look, Michelle. You holding up okay?"

She considered. She was tired; exhausted, really; and still feverish. She had absolutely nothing left to be happy about. She was miserable and cold and lonely and there was no one—_no one_—who could reach her. She was alone and scared and sick and more devastated than she'd ever felt in her life.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

He accepted the answer for what it was _"I'm god-awful, but I'm holding myself together, okay?" _and chose not to press the issue further. He knew a breakdown was the last thing Michelle could handle right now, and he let her keep her composure.

"I called because I wanted to talk to you about Tony."

Her voice stiffened. "What about Tony?"

"First of all, I want to tell you that I'm going to testify at his trial and do everything I can for him. And you. Michelle… you call me if you need anything, you understand?"

Michelle smiled faintly. If there was one man who always had to be helping someone—preferably several thousands of someones— it was Jack Bauer. But she knew he really cared about her, too, and he meant what he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I will Jack."

"But there's something else. You know he's probably going to get convicted; we both know that. He did what he did."

Hearing a sharp intake of breath, Jack felt his muscles tighten and knew what Michelle was thinking. It was obvious that it was not a subject she was comfortable with. Not that she was comfortable with much of anything any more.

"And here's the thing: I can work on Palmer. He's gonna be unreachable for at least a week, probably more, because of Sherry, but I give you my word that as soon as I can, I will do everything in my power to persuade the President to help Tony."

She should have been touched by this. She should have been grateful. She should have thanked him. She should have said anything but what she did: "What the hell is that going to do, Jack?"

He sounded unmistakably offended. "Michelle, I just thought you'd appreciate it if I could get the most powerful man in the world to help your husband get out of treason charges, but—"

Horrified at what she'd said, Michelle backpedaled. "Jack, I'm sorry I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, I just…" her voice broke. "I'm scared, Jack," she admitted.

He was taken aback. Over the three years he'd known her, Jack Bauer had seen Michelle repeatedly go through increasingly terrible situations. And she'd never betrayed fear even in the subtlest sign. Now, here she was, tearfully telling him that she was scared.

Voice softening, he said, "It's okay to be Michelle. It's okay. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Though he couldn't see her, she shook her head. "No. No. I deserved it after what I said. I'm—I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Michelle."

"So… so do you think… what do you think Palmer's going to do?"

Jack sighed. "I'm afraid he might still be upset about Tony and me planning the operation without his consent. But he was happy with what we were able to do, so that'll work in his favor. Michelle, I don't want you to get your hopes up, but I might be able to get a pardon."

She was silent, struggling to keep her breathing in check.

"…Michelle?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Thank you, Jack."

"Hey—it's okay. You know that."

"I really appreciate it, though."

"Yeah." A long pause followed. Finally, Jack said awkwardly, "I'll let you get some sleep then."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah."

The connection clicked off. Michelle sat staring at the phone. _Don't think about it. Don't you dare think that he might get a pardon because if he doesn't you'll just be disappointed. Damnit! Don't think about it!_

Shaking, Michelle stood up slowly and, bit by bit, pushed the idea of a pardon out of her mind. At length, she went to the dresser to find something warmer to wear. If she was so cold, why hadn't she attempted to warm up?


	5. Regrouping

**A/N:** _Firstly, thank you for the reviews! They really do make me a happy author. This chapter, I should note, is the happiest chapter yet (relatively speaking, of course, which isn't saying much) but it's much less angsty and more... well, "regrouping." I felt that Michelle needed to "regroup" so we could get on with the plot. Feedback for this would be much appreciated._

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* * *

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**Chapter Four: Regrouping**

"I have no life," Michelle informed her bunny two nights after she'd visited Tony, sitting on the bed with a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a spoon. Memee's long, worn, ears flopped over her face, but not enough to stop her from staring at Michelle. The familiar gaze of trusting love was tainted with skepticism. Clearly, the rabbit wasn't convinced.

She plopped the ice cream down on the bedside table and lifted the bunny up to her eye level. _"I'm talking to a stuffed bunny. _Do you need any more proof than that?" Michelle let Memee fall back to the bed and returned to her ice cream.

In two days, things had already settled down—relatively speaking. She'd used her rank to wrangle her way into visits with Tony, but her best efforts still yielded her access to him only once every two weeks, for half an hour. She'd been used to working with him every day, and then going home with him after work. They were together almost literally twenty-four/seven. And now… half an hour once every two weeks? Michelle didn't know _how _she was going to deal with it.

So she didn't; she filled all her time with work. Usually, she was at CTU by seven, and didn't leave until after ten in the evening. It was exhausting, but her temperature had returned to normal and she preferred work. She preferred it to the alternative of coming home by herself and having to think about Tony's absence and the total nonexistence of her life outside CTU. It simply wasn't possible to maintain a social life when she was lucky to get one day off in a month. Not that she'd ever exactly been a social butterfly to begin with.

Things were simpler that way. She didn't have time for a life. Usually, she was working and that was how she got to spend time with her husband—because they were together. Once they were out of work, it was such a relief to be alone that they were either reveling in the blessedly mundane aspects of life—shopping, watching movies, going out to eat, just taking a walk together— or having sex.

Jack always insisted that it was impossible to have a relationship while working at CTU. Most CTU agents figured out fairly quickly that CTU wasn't just a job, it was a life. But Michelle and Tony _both_ lived the CTU life, which meant they could maintain their relationship. But it also meant that Michelle's life consisted of exactly two things: CTU and Tony. Now Tony was gone, and CTU was her entire life.

The thought was immensely depressing. There was nothing to her life beyond work. At all. There never really had been, but as long as she'd had Tony she'd never noticed, and she'd guess that he hadn't either. Now, though, it was all too evident. Disheartened, Michelle dug her spoon into the ice cream.

Just then, she heard the distinct sound of the front door opening. She froze. The sound of the door closing and a person walking toward the bedroom floated down to her. Rigidly, she reached for the gun in the drawer by the bed and slowly rose.

Her mind was running through possibilities. A burglar. A rapist. More likely, a vengeful terrorist trying to kill her. _Shit._ She tried to remember the most recent and likely possibilities. There was that guy from a few months ago. She'd headed the investigation, and he still had a brother at large. But really, it could be anyone from her past. She wished Tony was there. _Shit. _

With her gun in front of her, Michelle moved to the door, but before she reached it the knob turned and it opened. "Don't move!" she shouted, weapon poised.

Michelle heard a female shriek, followed by: "Jesus Christ, Michelle, do you always answer the door like that?"

Her heart rate quickly returning to normal, Michelle lowered the gun and stepped back to allow her sister access to the room. Blushing, she silently replaced the gun in its drawer. Amanda was still breathing heavily, staring at Michelle. Suddenly, her gaze landed on the bed. "Oh my god, Michelle. _Tell me_ that bunny isn't in the bed while you're having sex."

Mechanically, Michelle faintly echoed, "The bunny isn't in the bed while I'm having sex."

"When you were three, it was cute. When you were twelve, it was still cute. Hell, it was cute when you toted that thing off to college with you. Now? Less cute. Explain to me why a woman who answers her door with a gun is still sleeping with a stuffed animal."

"I didn't _answer_ the door," Michelle said defensively, "you snuck in without knocking. What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"Making sure my baby sister's still alive. Michelle, what the hell is going on?"

"What, they don't have news stations in 'Frisco?"

"Not stations that broadcast the details of my sister's life, no."

"Go home. Aren't you supposed to have a husband or something?"

"Oh, him," Amanda said dismissively, "_A&E _is running a marathon of Bond movies. It'll be another day before he even notices I'm gone."

"Realize that I'm gone sixteen hours a day."

"I care… why again?"

"Because that leaves me eight hours at home. And between eating, sleeping, and getting ready for my husband's treason trial that doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing."

"Well, you're socializing with that goddamned rabbit, so why don't you tell me _why_ Tony got arrested for treason? You weren't exactly clear on that."

"It's classified."

"The gist of it?"

"I was being held hostage," Michelle recited dully, "Tony let a suspect escape to save me. That's treason."

_"Damn." _

"Meanwhile, my life consists of work and nothing else. Literally, nothing else. And frankly, I prefer it that way because I haven't _had_ a life outside of work since I've been at CTU. So go home to your goddamn picket fence—" Michelle glanced pointedly at her sister's pregnant belly— "and let me do my job, because it _is_ a matter of national security."

Amanda's voice softened immeasurably as she said, "This is still about the baby you lost last year, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," Michelle hissed, "It's about the fact that you do not, will not, and cannot have any comprehension of what my life is. You don't know what it feels like to kill a person. You don't know what it feels like when there's a very real threat to a city that has a lot of people you care about in it, and you can't tell them. You don't know what it feels like to have to deal with a crisis completely stoically when you and someone you love may be dying. You don't know what it feels like to get so paranoid you carry a gun when you run errands. You don't know what it feels like when it's up to you to literally stop the end of the world. You have no damn idea. So just _leave_ and go back to your happy, normal life with your house in the suburbs and your husband who's not in prison and your baby who made it past nine weeks."

"It _is_ about the baby."

"_It's not about the baby._ I'd be lying if I said I'm not jealous out of my mind, but it's not about the baby! You just…" Michelle's anger faded quickly and she simply felt defeated. "Look, Amanda. Stay here for a few days if you want to. But my world's not your world, and…" choking on her tears, Michelle broke off.

"My baby sister…" Amanda crooned softly, gathering Michelle into her arms. Michelle nestled her face into her sister's shoulder and simply sobbed. "Go ahead, sweetie, Cry."

"I—can't—I—"

"It's okay to cry in front of me, Michelle. Tony's not the only person in the world who's allowed to see that you're human. Cry." And so Michelle did. She let her sister hold her, and she cried.

Amanda kept her arms wrapped around her sister, pained that she wasn't able to understand. Pained that she wasn't able to help. So she just stroked Michelle's hair, letting her cry, because she could, at least, offer her sister a refuge. She could offer Michelle a shoulder to cry on—literally—and at least remind her that there was a world beyond that insane job of hers.

Michelle was still crying into her sister's cotton maternity top when she was interrupted by the phone ringing. Why did the damn phone always ring when she was in the middle of crying?

Pulling away from Amanda, Michelle gained control of her emotions— she'd done this so many times now it was practically a routine—and answered. "Dessler." She was silent, listening to the person on the other end, and Amanda watched in amazement as her sister seemed to almost flip a switch and in an instant became cool and alert. "How good is the intel?... Okay... I'll be there in half an hour."

Michelle snapped the phone shut and stood up, already at the closet looking for something to wear. "We have a situation," she said over her shoulder, "I'm going into CTU. There are clean sheets for the guest room in the linen closet by the bathroom."

Before Amanda had time to answer, Michelle had emerged from the closet and was tugging on pantyhose and had a suit tossed out on the bed. "There isn't much food in the kitchen, but I keep directions to stores and restaurants in the drawer of the desk in the guest room."

"Are your running a hotel or something?"

"No," Michelle answered as she pulled on the jacket and went into the bathroom, "I'm being organized for situations like this."

The women were silent while Michelle pulled back her hair with a minimum of frustration at its unruliness and then applied her makeup. As Michelle came back into the bedroom in search of her watch and a pair of earrings, her sister finally spoke.

"What kind of situation?"

"Nothing too serious," Michelle dismissed the question, "Just an issue that needs to be dealt with. I'll be home tomorrow night."

"They really don't let you sleep, do they?"

"No one is forcing me to do anything," Michelle responded curtly, slipping on her shoes, grabbing her purse, and rushing out the front door.

_

* * *

_

The next evening, Michelle stumbled tiredly into the kitchen, utterly exhausted. Michelle was shocked to be greeted by the homey aroma of… food. Since the Cordilla virus, Michelle hadn't eaten a single full meal. She'd been existing on yogurt, the crappy food from the CTU café, and frozen dinners.

"Amanda?" she called weakly.

"You keep no food _whatsoever_ in this house," Amanda complained as she entered from the den.

"I don't cook."

"You mean you _can't_ cook."

"That too." Micelle was too tired to even attempt to defend her culinary skills—or lack thereof.

"I've been keeping the lasagna warm in the oven. Let me just take it out… you go take off that godawful suit; I don't understand how you can spend your days in rayon and heels. That's just dumb."

"_You're_ just dumb," Michelle offered uncreatively as she left in search of something more comfortable. As she made her way through the house Michelle, realized that her sister had cleaned. Was she being nice or just making some subtle dig at Michelle's lack of domestic skills?

As Michelle reached the bedroom and began opening drawers, she found that Amanda had done laundry. _Nice,_ Michelle concluded instantly. Then, when she opened the closet to toss in her shoes, she saw suits, tops, and skirts that had been crumpled on the floor fresh in dry cleaner's bags. _Definitely nice. _

She returned to the kitchen a few minutes later. Before she could offer her thanks, Amanda shoved her into a chair before a table boasting actual, honest-to-god, cooked food. "Thank you so much."

"Hey. I actually _like_ to cook."

"No. No, for… for everything. For cleaning and doing laundry and getting my clothes cleaned and… and for coming, I guess," Michelle finished.

"Sweetie, I wasn't just going to leave you here."

"But thank you."

"That's what I'm here for, Michelle."

Michelle bit her lip and looked away. Being nurtured was not something she was used to. At all. What she was used to was living a dangerous, stressful life—never relaxing, always putting herself last. The feeling of being taken care of so completely was unfamiliar, but tremendously comforting. Taking a bite of lasagna, Michelle paused for a moment before asking, "Is lasagna your answer to everything?"

Amanda laughed, relaxing Michelle. The pure, lighthearted sound was in stark contrast to the tension and stress that had surrounded Michelle for the past day, and hearing it was a relief. "Comfort food," Amanda explained with a shrug.

"See? Food is your answer to everything." Michelle rolled her eyes.

"So?"

Michelle pouted, "Well, if you hadn't taught me that chocolate makes everything better, I wouldn't go running for the extra-dark every time I'm upset. I'm hereby blaming you for any weight I have gained or may eventually gain from eating chocolate."

Reaching across the table, Amanda playfully hit Michelle's shoulder. "You can't blame me for everything, hon."

"I can, too," Michelle muttered sulkily, stabbing a piece of lettuce with her fork.

"And don't stab your food with your fork. Slide it under."

"I'm not one of your students!"

"For god's sake, I don't even eat lunch with my students. Can you imagine trying to teach manners to two dozen fourth-graders? My god." Amanda shuddered at the mere thought.

"So how are they, anyway?"

"Oh, they're all right, I suppose. Getting antsy. Did I tell you they're building an addition onto the school?" Michelle shook her head. "Well, the construction is near my room and the kids are always distracted by it. It's making _me_ crazy, too."

"What are they building?"

"A new gym." Amanda rolled her eyes, and her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she asked, "Don't you think that's where we should be spending our funding? On phys-ed? My grammar books are all outdated—they don't even teach the oxford comma, for god's sake—and they're building a new _gym?_"

"There are worse problems in the world than oxford commas, you know," Michelle said quietly.

"Of course there are! And you spend way too much time worrying about them! If you're saving the world all day long, why don't you just _relax_ once you're home?"

Michelle sighed. "That's the part you don't understand. CTU is not a nine-to-five; you can't just leave at the end of the day. You just don't know what it means to—"

Amanda almost spit out her milk. "Michelle, I'm a _teacher._ I spent half of today correcting projects. I'm_ always _correcting and when I'm not, I'm planning lessons. Trust me, I don't clock out at the end of the day,"

Shaking her head, Michelle attempted to explain. "No. No, it's not… when you're an agent, you have to be on alert _all_ the time. I always have to be ready to go in at a moment's notice. Bad things happen when agents aren't on alert. People die."

"Michelle, the weight of the world is not on your shoulders."

"A lot of it _is,_ Amanda. _I'm_ the one who's responsible for protecting the LA region from any and all terrorist activities. Tony's in prison, Jack's in rehab—don't ask—, his partner just lost a hand, my immediate subordinate is dead, our regional director is dead… there _is_ no one else."

Looking troubled, Amanda was silent for a moment before saying, "That's way too much responsibility for one person."

Michelle shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't really have a choice. It's _my _responsibility. Anyway, Division's scrambling to get more qualified people… they're being transferred in from all around the country. We'll manage." Michelle paused only briefly before abruptly changing the subject. "So, what is it you have against Memee, anyway?"

With a laugh, Amanda answered, "Nothing. That dumb old bunny doesn't bother me; it's just my job to tease you."

_

* * *

_

Two days later, Amanda had gone home, leaving her sister with a clean house, clean clothes, a full refrigerator, and a residual sense of childhood comfort. The visit had recharged Michelle. Not only had Amanda taken care of all the household work Michelle had lacked the time, energy, and motivation to do, but she'd reminded Michelle that there really were still people who cared about her. She'd reminded her that beyond the hell Michelle insisted on living in, there was still an outside world. There were still people who did laundry and went grocery shopping. And there were people in that world who cared about her. Danny, even though he was too unstable to be any help. Her parents, even though they lived all the way across the country. And Amanda, who could still show up when she was needed.

_

* * *

_

Michelle stared at her cell phone's screen, where the number she'd dialed was displayed. Her finger hovered over the "call" button. Was she really going to do this? Well, who else was there to call? She pressed the key.

"Hello?"

"Chloe, it's Michelle."

"What is it?"

"I… I just want to talk to someone who knows what happened that day."

Chloe snorted. "I told you that you would eventually. I'm a better judge of emotional reactions than I get credit for."

"Chloe?"

"I'm just saying that I was right."

"I kind of figured that out, Chloe."

"Are you going to tell me why you finally decided to call, or are you going to sit there being sarcastic?"

"Chloe, for the love of God…" Michelle sighed. "My sister was here for a couple days—she left last night—and she doesn't understand."

"That's what I told you before. That no one outside of CTU would be any help."

"I _know_ that you told me that. And in case I didn't, you've already refreshed my memory."

"I'm just trying to be a friend, Michelle. You don't have to sound so hostile."

Michelle inhaled and counted to ten. "Okay. Okay."

The silence that followed lasted a full minute. Finally, Chloe huffed, "Well, what did you want to talk about? Is it the treason charges that are bothering you, or was it the whole watching eight hundred people die thing?"

"Both, Chloe! The whole damn day!"

"Well, if you're not going to be specific, I don't know how you expect me to help you."

"I don't. I don't expect you to help. There isn't anything that can help at this point. I just thought…" Michelle trailed off. "I don't know. You know what went on that day."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I do think it was admirable that you were still working after Tony got shot. I mean, I know you were pretty sensitive and that wasn't necessarily professional, but still."

Michelle was silent. Chloe rambled on. "And inside the Chandler Plaza Hotel… I mean, going in was against protocol and everything, and it _was_ because of you that your whole team died, but it was still probably the right thing to do. I mean, _I _wouldn't want to be responsible for that, but it's personal, I guess. Sacrificing yourself to _maybe_ save a hotel full of people isn't really black-and-white. But as an agent, I mean, it was probably the right call."

"I… I appreciate hearing that Chloe."

"It's just what I feel, okay?" Chloe said defensively, caught in the unfamiliar position of actually helping another person's emotional state.

"And I appreciate hearing it. Being inside that hotel… you saw the video feed, Chloe. I felt like… I felt so helpless. I felt like I had failed."

"Everyone felt that, so don't think you're anything special. I mean, I know I felt like if I'd done a better job those people might not being dying, and it's pretty damn horrible. Especially when we're used to _saving_ lives. We know how high the stakes are, but actually _seeing_ all those people bleeding and dying isn't exactly a confidence booster."

"Yeah," Michelle said, still slightly taken aback. She'd never have guessed that Chloe of all people would hit the nail so soundly on the head. But then, maybe it was _because_ Chloe was always so brutally honest that she saw the truth so clearly.

"And I guess you also feel responsible for Tony being arrested, but that's different. I mean, it's not like you could have done anything to stop it. Tony was irresponsible because of you, but it was his choice, not yours. So blame _him_ for it"

"Well, I have been, Chloe. And where does that get me? What's the point of being angry with him when he's in prison because of me? He's in prison, Chloe. Damnit, my husband's in _prison._"

"I didn't say to be _angry_ at him; I said to _blame_ him," Chloe said in a voice most people reserved for small children, "There's a difference between holding someone responsible for their actions and getting mad at them about it. He did it; it was his fault: end of story. You can resent the choice without resenting him. Jeez. And _I'm _supposed to be the one with no social skills."

"You have social skills," Michelle assured her, "They're just more perceptive than interactive, that's all."

"Whatever," Chloe said, her eye-roll almost audible. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I don't think Tony should be in prison. He shouldn't have this job anymore, but there should be some kind of law karma thing. I mean, he's given the greater good a hell of a lot more than he hurt it by letting Saunders escape, and as long as he's not in charge of CTU it's not like he's a risk to society. And since he doesn't deserve punishment because of the non-existent law-karma thing, there's no real reason for him to be there."

"Well… I… I appreciate hearing that."

"You said that exact same thing before."

This time, it was Michelle who rolled her eyes. "Because I meant it. Really. Thank you."

"Whatever." For a time, no words were spoken; both women were unsure what to say. Finally, Michelle managed to break the painfully awkward silence. "Well, I'll let you go."

"Bye," Chloe said shortly before the connection clicked off.

Michelle continued to sit in kitchen chair she'd been in, turning the phone over in her hand. She had not expected that. At all. Her sister's visit had driven home to Michelle how much she needed to talk to someone who knew what she'd gone through. In the past, that person had always been Tony. But when most of the problem was his lack of presence, that left Michelle utterly bereft. With Jack in rehab, Chloe had been the only person Michelle had known _to _call. She'd simply needed to connect with someone who shared the experiences of that day.

The insightfulness of Chloe's rambling explanations was the last thing Michelle had expected. And she'd been shocked by how much it helped her just to hear the other woman talk. It was clichéd, but knowing that she wasn't alone made her feel so much better. Chloe knew what she was feeling, and that meant everything.

Chloe was blunt. Brutally honest. Insensitive to the impact of her words. But in a world full of people who measured every word carefully, there was something relieving about listening to Chloe. Chloe, who, through her uncensored speeches, could express in words the thoughts that were tangled and foggy to Michelle. And because Chloe was so candid, it was clear that what she said was sincere.

Bolstered by Chloe's awkward support and by her sister's nurturing, Michelle steeled herself for the trying months ahead.

_

* * *

_

Slumping back dejectedly, Tony could see his wife approaching, clearing the final layer of security. She looked tired, and was still wearing the skirt and jacket she'd obviously chosen for work. Her hair was coming undone, and she brushed loose strands from her face as she impatiently watched the guard examine her ID.

A few moments later, he had given her the okay, and Michelle swept past the remaining men and over to where her husband was seated. With an anxious sigh, she bit her lip and sank into the chair on the other side of the glass. She put her hand against it, wishing desperately that she could touch him. "Tony."

He leaned forward a little. "Sweetheart."

Her eyes were brimming with tears as her hand pressed still harder against the glass. "Tony."

"Michelle, it's alright."

"…Yeah," she managed, biting her lip again.

"Sweetheart, I'm fine."

Her eyes focused unwillingly on the bruise extending out of the side of his collar and the cut below his eye. She slid her hand off the glass and twisted her wedding band around her finger, unable to meet his eyes. "Tony, this isn't right."

His voice was bitter when he said, "'Right' doesn't mean a hell of a lot, Michelle."

Not knowing how to respond, Michelle was silent. She felt completely and utterly powerless. Finally, she managed, "I wish I could do something."

"I do too, sweetie," he said tiredly. It was clear from his tone that this was a thought he'd turned over all too many times before. He, like Michelle, was used to taking control of situations and finding solutions. His own helplessness was as infuriating to him as it was frustrating, and the more he searched for a solution to his own situation, the more depressing the reality of it became.

"Tony, I miss you."

A look of pain came over Tony's face. "I'm sorry I can't be there for you."

Michelle lifted her eyes and met his. "I'm not the one we should be worried about."

"I'm fine."

"Tony," Michelle's voice was suddenly hard, "Don't lie to me."

"Okay, I'm not fine."

She let her eyes drop again and she could feel her lips trembling. Her gaze darted around the room, but her husband's face, with its heart-wrenchingly bleak expression, never left her line of vision. "Tony, we're going to get through this. We have to."

"Sweetheart," he slouched back again, "There's no point in setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Tony, don't tell me you've given up already."

He was silent.

"Tony, I _love _you," she half-pleaded, desperate for that to mean something.

"I love you, too." Though his words were sincere, Tony's voice was so disheartened that Michelle wanted to cry.

Suddenly she asked, "Remember that time, right after our wedding, when you tried to teach me how to make pancakes?"

A smile flickered across Tony's face. "It should be illegal for you to come within twenty yards of a stove."

Michelle laughed, ostensibly at his comment. But really, she was laughing in relief that her Tony was still there.

"Or maybe any kitchen appliance that requires turning on."

Giggling, Michelle questioned, "What about the microwave?"

Tony scratched his neck and looked up at her devilishly. "I'm not forgetting the time you put a piece of bread in there. For four minutes."

Michelle mock-pouted. "That was over two years ago!"

With a satisfied smirk, Tony crossed his arms. "And I haven't let you cook since."

"I tried to make mashed potatoes," she confessed, a guilty look across her face.

"God help the potato," sighed Tony.

"Hey, the potato made it out of there almost intact. _I_ didn't," she huffed.

"Don't tell me you cut yourself slicing a potato. That's just sad, honey."

Sheepishly, Michelle displayed the healing gash on her hand. "The only sad part is that I didn't get to eat my potatoes," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

"You're hopeless," he laughed.

Thrilled at the sound of his laugh, a sound she hadn't heard in almost a month, Michelle had to exert all of her self-control not to jump up and down. "I have other skills," she managed to say levelly.

"Not domestic skills."

"So?" she challenged defensively. "I'm good at fighting terrorists.

"And I love my crime-fighting hero-wife," he told her with bemused affection, "You'd make a good action figure."

Giving him a flirty look, she reminded him in a low voice, "But I don't wear a breast plate."

Michelle would have sworn she could see Tony salivating as he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. "I think I like you without _any_thing over your—"

"I really prefer to wear black leather," she interrupted, continuing as though without interruption, "Don't you prefer it when I wear black leather, Tony?" Her tone was maddeningly ordinary.

"I prefer _you._"

_

* * *

_

When Michelle left the prison that evening, she felt almost… happy.


	6. Absence

**A/N:**_ I have _finally_ written another chapter! Sorry about the crazily long wait on this ...I've had this insane deadline that has left little time to write... anyway, here it is! Please tell me what you think._

* * *

**Chapter Five: Absence**

"I want to reinstate Jack Bauer as head of field ops," Michelle told Brad Hammond across the table in the situation room.

"Michelle, he's a junkie."

"He's completed a program! He's completely clean and stable. We both know he's the best. I run CTU, and I want Jack."

"We brought Curtis Manning all the way from Boston to take over field ops."

"Curtis is inexperienced. He's been fine so far, but we also haven't had a sensitive situation so far. Curtis is good at what he does, and that's fine. But strike teams are available anywhere, and we need someone with Jack's finesse."

"We need someone who's not unpredictable and erratic. Jack Bauer is not returning to CTU. End of discussion."

The next day, Brad Hammond got a call from President Palmer's office. He hung up the phone with a sigh before dialing the next number.

"CTU, this is Dessler."

"You can have Bauer."

* * *

It was a relief to have Jack back. Heading CTU by herself had been taking its toll on Michelle. Though her single-minded focus and long hours, Michelle had been doing a good, efficient job, but the stress had been damn near overwhelming. Getting Jack back as Head of Field Ops eased Michelle's peace of mind considerably. He had the experience and expertise to undertake decision-making that had fallen entirely to Michelle for the past weeks.

Jack's first day back was also the first time Michelle had seen him face-to-face since the day following the Cordilla virus when he'd come to check on her. As he walked through the doors, Michelle could feel some of the weight of responsibility lift from her shoulders.

She greeted him with a smile, which, these days, was a rarity from her. "Welcome back, Jack," she said warmly.

"It's good to see you, Michelle." He returned her smile with one of his own, equally rare. "Thank you for getting me back here."

"It was the least I could do after what you did that day."

"Yeah, well, thank you anyway." By that time, they had reached Michelle's office so that Jack could be briefed. He closed the door behind himself and looked at Michelle, veiled concern in his eyes. "How's Tony?"

Biting her lip, Michelle sighed. She swallowed and glanced away before answering, "Jack… it's… I've never seen him so… so defeated. So hopeless. And it just…" Michelle trailed off.

Jack sighed a little, both in sympathy and apology. "I'm sorry it had to go down like this. I haven't been able to reach Palmer yet… as soon as I can, though, I give you my world I will do everything in my power to help Tony."

Michelle gave a faint smile. "Thank you, Jack. And for now… things could be worse. Federal prison isn't exactly a walk in the park for an agent…" a bitter laugh escaped Michelle's throat. "But he's still doing okay. When I visited him… for part of the time, he was happy. It'll be okay, I guess…" Michelle drifted into thought for a moment before returning to the present and focusing. "All right, let's start with the most recent protocols."

* * *

A few days later, Michelle managed to escape CTU before the hour was too late in order to get to the prison for her second visit with Tony. Waiting for access, she twirled a piece of hair around her finger in anticipation. She'd been looking forward to this for two weeks, but now that it was time she was scared.

She was scared of how another two weeks had affected Tony. Scared to see what new physical injuries he'd be sporting, and scared of what his emotional state would be like. If he'd already looked so hopeless the last time she'd come, how would he be now? Would he…

Her thoughts were interrupted when a guard called, "Agent Dessler?"

"Yes?"

"You can head in."

"Thank you."

A few moments later, Michelle could see Tony through the glass, leaning to one side of his chair with a look of defeat that tore at her heart. The bruise on his neck had faded, but she could see a new one along the left side of his jaw. Forcing her eyes from the bruises, she met his gaze. "Tony."

"Hey."

"I miss you," she said wistfully.

"I miss you, too. I miss you so much." The ache in Tony's voice made Michelle want to cry. It wasn't fair that this was happening to him. It wasn't, but… but then, suddenly, she just couldn't take it any more.

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she was asking.

"Let Saunders escape."

He looked up at her, pain and anguish written across his face. "Sweetheart, I couldn't loose you."

"Tony, there were millions of lives on the line! I know you love me but damnit, what about the rest of the world?"

"You think I don't know that, Michelle? You think I don't realize how many people could have died? Goddamnit, Michelle! I know that! I know what I did, you hear me? I know!"

"Then why didn't you just _let me die?_" she choked out.

"I _couldn't._ I came too close to loosing you to let that happen."

"Tony, I was willing to die for the mission; you _knew_ that."

"I was willing to die, too, Michelle. But I couldn't let_ you_ die; you understand? It'd have been easy enough to sacrifice myself, but how could I have sacrificed you?"

"It was the wrong thing to do."

"I know." He looked down and was silent for a moment. "But I'd do it again."

* * *

Jack entered Michelle's office apprehensively, a file in his hand. Glancing up, Michelle asked, "What is it?"

"I'm going to need you for the covert op to apprehend Sara and Jacob Wilson."

"What?"

"I need you for this op."

"_Why?_ You have an entire department at your disposal, Jack!"

"You're the most experienced and highest-ranking female agent."

"Why do you need…" Michelle trailed off as the only obvious explanation hit her.

Needlessly, Jack explained, "We need to look like a couple."

Nodding her understanding, Michelle readily agreed. "All right. How's the op going to proceed?"

"You know Chloe's been working up all the data your people have been collecting on them, looking for the most vulnerable point?" Michelle nodded again, and he continued. "Well, she found it. They booked a dinner reservation for this Friday where they can't be guarded well, if at all. The restaurant, though… it caters nearly exclusively to couples. I need you with me to blend in."

"Okay. I'm fine with that. But I was looking at the report on that reservation earlier, and it looks like it's really just a romantic dinner. A break from the stress of trying to blow up the West Coast." Michelle rolled her eyes. "So I don't think we're likely to hear anything relevant."

"No, I know. At this point, I just want them in custody. It's been long enough after we stopped their last operation to know that they didn't have a back-up planned, and not long enough for a new operation to be set into motion without them."

"All right, that's your call. We'll go ahead with it. I'll call Division and get them to send someone to take over while we're both gone."

"Good. This file has everything relevant Chloe and I have worked on." Jack set the folder down onto Michelle's desk. "Call me when you've reviewed it and we can start going over logistics."

* * *

Sitting in the situation room with Jack, Michelle rose as the door opened and a practical-looking middle aged woman entered. "Erin Driscoll?"

"Yes. Michelle Dessler and Jack Bauer, I take it?"

Shaking Driscoll's hand firmly, Michelle nodded. "That's correct."

Jack did the same, and they all stood silently for a moment before he began. "You've already been brought up to speed on current protocols?"

"I have."

"Good. Then there's not much for you to worry about. Chloe O'Brian is going to be running our operation, so everything should be running fairly smoothly. We need you to head things up and ensure that everything goes the way it should."

"Should I coordinate directly with O'Brian, then?"

Michelle nodded. "Yes. She's got the schematics and she'll be monitoring sat and infrared; she's going to be the one directing us while we're in the field." Lowering her voice a little, Michelle added, "You should know, though, that Chloe can be… prickly." Michelle paused a moment before adding, "But she's the best."

"And I trust her," Jack put in.

Not even attempting to mask the dubious note in her voice, Driscoll told them, "Well, it's your call."

"Yes it is," said Michelle shortly.

"Well, then, let's get to work."

* * *

As they neared the restaurant, Michelle sighed, fingering the strap on her handbag. Its contents were… out of the ordinary. A pistol, a tazer, two sets of handcuffs. Whatever happened to lipstick and tampons?

She felt ridiculous. The laughably impractical black cocktail dress combined with what Michelle had mentally dubbed her Purse of Crime and Punishment made her feel like a parody of a bad movie. _Silly_ was the only word to describe it—

"You ready?" Jack asked, interrupting her thoughts. Biting her lip, Michelle nodded.

"Curtis, hold your position," Jack ordered to the other agent, who had a strike team at the ready half a block away.

"Copy that."

"All right. Let's go, Michelle." After feeling at her earpiece one last time, Michelle got out of the car with Jack. He took her arm, and they started toward the entrance.

As Michelle and Jack entered the restaurant, both became instantly alert, scanning the restaurant for the faces of the terrorist ringleaders. "How may I help you?" the hostess asked pleasantly.

"We have a reservation for Daniels," Jack told her.

Checking her notebook, the hostess nodded. "Follow me." She led them to a table along a left-hand wall and handed them menus before bustling back to the entrance.

Picking them up, Michelle and Jack let their eyes drop down to the menus as they searched, through lowered eyelids, for their targets. It was Michelle who suddenly leaned forward toward Jack, speaking softly with a sultry look for the benefit of anyone who happened to be watching.

"I have a visual on the subjects," she said in a low voice, "In the back corner to your right."

* * *

"She's going to the bathroom," Jack said evenly and barely audibly, "Get her."

"What about him?" she asked, her own tone just as low.

"I'm gonna take care of it. I'll contact you via comm."

Out loud, Michelle announced, "I'm going to the ladies' room."

Jack nodded. Standing, Michelle dropped her napkin into her chair and started for the bathroom. She saw a redheaded woman, four tables away from that of their subjects, rise and also head toward the bathroom. Speaking softly and discreetly into her comm., Michelle murmured, "Jack I think I have a guard. Red-head in a green dress at your three o'clock."

Michelle could hear Jack's voice in her ear, telling her, "Let the guard get there first; you head in after her."

"Copy." Looking a little lost, Michelle headed in the wrong direction.

After a few moments she found a staff member. "Excuse me? Can you tell me where the restrooms are?"

"Straight ahead and to your right," the harried waitress said distractedly before dashing off.

Michelle reached the door just after the redhead. Entering, she paused. There were three stalls, only one of which was occupied, but the other woman was simply leaning against the wall.

Feigning confusion, Michelle asked, "Is there a line?"

The woman started. "Oh! No. No, I'm just waiting for my friend." She gave a visibly forced smile.

"Oh. Well, I just need to touch up my lipstick first, anyway" she explained conversationally as she reached into her purse. Her hand emerged holding a tazer, and it had almost made contact with the other woman when she slid a blade out of the sleeve of her bolero jacket, going for Michelle. With her free hand, Michelle managed to catch the woman's wrist, but not before the knife sliced into her bare forearm. Gasping at the sudden pain, Michelle was still flinching as her tazer met the guard's flesh and her limp body sank to the floor.

All of this had taken place within a matter of seconds. Michelle had already turned the deadbolt on the bathroom door and was reaching for her gun when the stall door burst open. Sara Wilson, alerted by the sounds of the struggle, was fumbling in her purse for her own gun.

For a fleeting moment, Michelle saw the humor in the situation. Earlier, she'd felt like she was stepping into a bad movie; now she knew for certain she must be. But the moment passed as the reality of the situation took over, and she leveled her gun at Sara, who still groping in her purse, calmly ordering, "Sara, hands on your head."

Caught by surprise by the use of her name, Sara froze. "Take your hand out of the purse, and drop it on the floor. I'm a federal agent and I will _not_ hesitate to shoot you if you lift your weapon. Hands on your, head, Sara."

Slowly, and with a defiant glare, she complied. "Now cuff yourself." Sara's trembling, manicured hand betrayed her trepidation as she accepted the handcuffs from Michelle, and snapped them shut. "On your knees." Sara lowered herself to the ground, never breaking eye contact with Michelle and never flinching at the gun pointed at her.

Keeping her eyes fixed on her subject, Michelle said into her comm. unit: "Sara Wilson is in custody and her guard is down."

Jack's voice was low and level as he said, "I identify two guards on Wilson. One is at the same table as Sara's. I need you to restrain him before I go after the other two."

Driscoll came over comm. saying, "Shouldn't you have Curtis and the strike team deal with that?" Back at CTU, Chloe glared at her. "A strike team would kind of, you know, _alert_ the hostiles to the situation. Not the best idea, don't you think?" Chloe rolled her eyes. "Michelle, don't come out yet. There's someone in the hallway."

"Copy." Waiting for Chloe to clear her to exit, Michelle came nearer to Sara. She quietly knocked Sara out with the tazer before returning it to her purse. Then she went to the sink and ran the faucet, rinsing off the blood on her arm and hand. Biting her lip, Michelle reached for towels to wrap around her arm and slow the blood flow before taking the guard's jacket and pulling it on. Michelle was just glancing in the mirror, grateful that her black dress didn't show the blood, when Chloe cleared her to leave. With a deep breath, she slipped out, leaving the unconscious women behind her.

Jack was sipping his water glass, Jacob Wilson was waiting impatiently for his wife's return, and a man sat sullenly at the table from which Sara's guard had come. Michelle wandered toward her table taking a roundabout route so she would pass the guard.

As she approached the table, Michelle glanced across the room and briefly made eye contact with Jack. He nodded slightly and, assured, Michelle turned her attention to the guard she was fast nearing. Smoothly, she slipped her gun out and pressed it into the small of his back. He stiffened and was about to whip around when they were both startled by a loud crash across the room.

Jack had Wilson on the floor and his gun on the second guard, shouting, "Don't Move!" Screams began to be heard throughout the restaurant, and chaos mounted as frightened couples fled the area.

Keeping her own gun pressed firmly into the man's back, Michelle barked, "Curtis, move in! We are no longer covert! Move in!"

Not a moment after she'd given the order, Michelle heard Jack shouting her name, and she saw their one unsecured subject running toward an exit. The room was just about empty of civilians by then and, taking aim, she fired her gun. She felt an odd sinking sensation as she saw the runner fall, clutching at his side.

He was down. But as she turned back to the first guard she'd been watching, she saw him starting to slip out of her sight. Jack was occupied with a struggling Wilson, and the runner already had a healthy head start on her. Instead of attempting what would be a doubtlessly futile pursuit, Michelle spoke into her comm. "Curtis, we have a runner from the left rear exit! Chloe, reposition satellite!"

That done, Michelle tentatively approached the downed hostile. The shot had been intentionally nonfatal, but she nonetheless felt a wave of guilt wash over her as she saw his bloodied shirt. Repressing the feeling, she cuffed him and informed him, without emotion, "We'll have a medic in here in a minute." His eyes, hazy with pain, looked up at her and Michelle felt a sharp tug at her heart.

* * *

"What do you mean he escaped?" Jack asked angrily.

Curtis shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jack. He slipped through the perimeter."

"Sonofabitch," Jack muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was then that Michelle finally came over. "The women are in custody with Wilson and the other guard," she informed them.

"Good," Jack said, glancing up. His eyes landed on her arm, and he turned his attention toward her. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," she sighed. "Not a big deal." She paused a beat before adding, "So he's gone?" Jack nodded, and Michelle put her hand to her eyes. "Well, I've got Chloe tracking satellite. She might be able to pick up a trail."

"She might."

* * *

"He switched cars! In a goddamn tunnel!" Chloe griped, "Why does Hollywood have to make so many action movies? It's a bad idea; it just gives the real bad guys inspiration!"

Michelle sighed, again. _Damn._ "Chloe, get on traffic cams and get every license plate coming out of the tunnel to cross-reference with our databases."

Chloe glared. "That's going to take forever."

"Split it up in your department, or whatever, I don't care. Just do it, okay?"

"Fine."

* * *

"Michelle!" Jack caught up with her as she left the locker room. "You sure you're okay to drive?"

Glancing down at her bandaged arm, Michelle nodded. "It's fine."

"Michelle, he's still on the loose, so… keep your gun close tonight; you got that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I will. Thanks Jack," she gave him an appreciative smile, and felt instinctively at the hard metal in her holster. Hesitantly, but almost without thinking, she reached a hand out to touch his shoulder she added, "You be careful, too."

"Yeah." They stood there for a moment, uncomfortable, before Jack said, "Goodnight Michelle. Take care."

"You too," she told him gently before turning to leave.

* * *

Michelle was trembling a little as she searched for her keys. Whether she was willing to admit it or not, she was incredibly drained and felt about ready to pass out. In addition to being utterly exhausted, she was shaken up, scared, her arm was sore, and to top it all off she had a killer headache again.

She just wanted to go home; she didn't know how much longer she could hold it together. _Where were the damn keys?_ Michelle sighed in relief as her fingers met the metal and she pulled the keys out of her purse to unlock the car.

As she slid into the seat, Michelle was acutely aware of the gun wedged between her hip and the seat back, and there was something about the feeling that disturbed her.

* * *

Sinking onto the couch, Michelle let her eyes droop shut and let out a long sigh. When she reached up to her eyes to massage some of the tension out, she felt tears on her fingertips and realized that she was crying. She let her hand continue up her forehead, pushing the hair out of her face as her head fell to the side, settling onto the edge of the armrest. Michelle drew her legs up under her and breathed in and out deeply, willing the tears to stop.

With a little apprehension, Michelle glanced down at her arm and felt a sudden and overpowering desire for Tony to be there. It washed over her all at once, its intensity almost making her dizzy. While his protectiveness over her could sometimes make her want to scream, Michelle would have given anything at that moment to have him beside her, gentle and concerned.

He would sit close to her, with one hand across her back and the other cradling her hurt arm. He'd stroke the edge of the bandage with his thumb, and look up at her with irrational worry. "How's it feel?" She'd roll her eyes a little, but after a moment she'd relent and admit that it was tender and sore. Then he'd melt and brush his lips across her neck. She'd sink into him, resting her head on his chest, and he'd pull her into his lap and feel her body go limp. After a few minutes, though, she'd reach up to her throbbing temples, and he'd brush her hands back, asking, "Headache?" "Yeah," she'd murmur, her voice muffled by his shirt. Then his hands would begin to rub small circles across her forehead and temples, and she'd relax as the pain began to dissipate. She'd be almost asleep when he'd cup her cheek in his hand and say, "Let's go to bed, honey." She'd turn her face into his chest again and mumble that she was tired, and he would sigh and pull her up. With his arm around her waist and her head flopped onto his shoulder, they'd stumble to bed and she'd be out within minutes.

But he wasn't there, though, and no hand reached over to squeeze hers, no tender voice asked if she was all right, no warm arms wrapped around her. She was alone, all alone. She wanted Tony to pick up her hands and squeeze them, to remind her that she would make it through this.

Trembling, Michelle stood and looked down at her hands. They were capable hands; there was no question about that. They were hands that brushed over keyboards to find vital information. Hands that had restrained any number of dangerous people, dangerous in the most quintessential sense. Hands that gripped guns and pulled the triggers.

Tonight, the hands trembled. White and fragile, they looked no more substantial than a doll's. Those were not hands that could commit the acts of violence that Michelle knew in her heart they had. These hands looked innocent; they weren't.

Michelle could feel herself slowly sinking back onto the couch as she held her injured arm in one hand and stared down. She'd shot a man that day. Pulled the trigger and sent a bullet driving through his flesh. Oh, she knew perfectly well that it had been necessary, knew that she was more than justified, knew that it was the only thing she _could_ have done as an agent.

But the part that everyone forgot was that she was more than simply an agent. She was a woman, too, and the human part of her was guilt-stricken at her actions. It wasn't as though this was the first time she'd been through this, but always before, Tony had been there. He had held her while she cried and he'd talked her through the guilt, knowing firsthand what it felt like.

And it was hard, so hard, to deal with this by herself. Not just the guilt, but everything was overwhelming. Michele was badly shaken; she always was and if what Tony and even Jack told her was true, it would always be that way. She was on edge, jumping when she heard the sound of central air whirring.

_Pull yourself together,_ she reprimanded herself, standing up,_ You're a mess._ Too tired to eat and not caring enough to bother, she slowly made her way toward the bedroom and tried not to think about how empty the bed would feel.

Michelle stripped off the top and pants she'd changed into after returning to CTU, tossing them onto the floor and reaching into the dresser drawer for one of Tony's t-shirts. Telling herself that wearing her husband's shirt to bed was silly, a sign of weakness, Michelle had stubbornly been refusing to pull one on as she'd desperately been wanting to. That night, though, she simply couldn't help herself. She needed him, needed him so badly…

Trying for no discernable reason to stop from crying, Michelle crawled into bed and wrapped her arm the pillow, wishing with a fierce desperation that he was there.

* * *

Michelle went into work early the next morning; tired, sore, and irritable. What wouldn't she give for a day off…

Besides the night shift, the only person already there was Jack. When he saw Michelle enter, he looked up and came towards her. "How you doing?" he asked in a low voice.

Michelle gave a brief smile that did not extend to her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Michelle…"

"I don't want to talk about this right now."

With a resigned sigh, Jack nodded. "Okay."

She gave another faint smile and walked briskly toward her office. Her arm hurt and she was tired and she just didn't want to talk to anyone right then. With a little sigh of her own, she sat down in front of her computer, logging into the system. No alerts were waiting for her, so Michelle reluctantly logged into her e-mail, where there would doubtless be any number of bureaucrats on her ass about some insignificant thing or another.

As she read the third e-mail, from Brad Hammond, Michelle's eyes slowly grew wide, and she froze.

_Michelle, _

_You've done good work restructuring CTU, and Homeland Security wants you to head the restructuring at their __Seattle__ branch. I agree. You will start at the beginning of next week. The transfer is not contestable._


	7. Severance

**A/N:**_ It's been a long time since I updated; there's been a lot going on in my life. But I have not abandoned this story! I'm determined to finish it no longer how long that takes. And so here, at very long last, is the next chapter._

* * *

**Chapter Six: Severance**

Michelle stared at the screen, dumbfounded. He could not do this to her. Transfer her out of LA? No. No. It was a two-day drive to Seattle, wasn't it? He was going to put two days between Tony? Bastard! She wanted to hit him. She wanted to—

Suddenly, as Michelle sat fuming, a conversation came flashing back to her and she heard Hammond's voice. _It's CTU or Tony—you can't have both…_Then, as Michelle realized what her response had been, she just wanted to cry. She'd had no idea he'd go this far. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ She'd agreed to keep working for CTU, and now he was shipping her away from her home, her friends… her husband. Michelle continued to stare at the screen in numbed disbelief.

* * *

After he'd hit the "send" button, Brad Hammond leaned back in his chair with sadistic pleasure. Tony Almeida was a pain in the ass. Michelle wasn't; Michelle was efficient and professional. Professional, except for marrying her immediate superior.

From the start, there had been animosity between Hammond and Almeida. It had begun with Nina. Jack's part in the whole disaster was quickly forgiven—his family had been kidnapped, his wife and unborn child murdered, his daughter permanently traumatized. Everyone felt sorry for Jack Bauer after that day.

Tony, on the other hand…

He'd been sleeping with Nina. That wasn't so easily forgiven, and Hammond had been absolutely furious with him. Hammond had taken out every last ounce of frustration and anger for everything that had happened that fateful day on Tony, who happened to be the most convenient scapegoat. In short, Hammond blamed Tony for Nina.

Things between them had gone downhill fast. The situation was more than a little exacerbated after the chloroform incident with Ryan Chapelle. If there had been any doubt in Hammond's mind about Tony's level of respect for authority and for his superiors, there wasn't after that day. And when Tony and Michelle announced their engagement, Hammond had been livid. There was no official protocol regarding interoffice relationships, and every last CTU agent, from Jack Bauer down to the lowliest tech stood firm that the couple's relationship did not interfere with their work. Hell, some of them even said that things ran _better_ that way, and Hammond had been unable to do a thing about it.

But the tremendous calamity caused by Nina had made Hammond absolutely certain that no good could come of an office romance, and he'd been proven right. Now, he was determined to make an example of the Mr. and Mrs. Almeida.

He didn't receive the same pleasure from watching Michelle suffer as he did from Tony. Though Hammond hadn't shown it, he'd been shocked and a little impressed when Michelle chose to keep her position at CTU. In that position, she'd done a remarkably good job. But Hammond knew that it was the rank-status upgrade that Michelle had gotten that had enabled her to wrangle her way into visits with Tony, and Hammond found it nothing short of infuriating.

When the position in Seattle had opened up, Hammond had seen it as a golden opportunity. The Homeland branch would certainly benefit from someone as qualified and driven as Michelle, and he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to separate the not-so-happy couple.

* * *

Michelle looked down and realized just how tightly her hands were gripping the edge of the desk. Exhaling, she slowly let go and reached for the telephone. 

A cold, hard voice answered. "Brad Hammond."

"It's Michelle."

"Michelle." Hammond's voice was suddenly far too jovial for Michelle's taste. "How are you?"

"I was a hell of a lot better before I found out you're transferring me out of LA."

"It's a good career move for you, Michelle. If you do well on this, you could be looking at a promotion."

"I don't _want_ a promotion," she snapped, "I want to be with my husband."

"He gave up the right to be with you when he committed treason," Brad said slowly, as if savoring every syllable. "And you, Michelle, gave up the right to be with _him_ when you accepted your position at CTU."

"Brad, I—"

"You have a duty to your country, Michelle, and right now, you're contractually obligated to remain active. We need you in Seattle; you're going to Seattle. End of discussion."

"Brad…"

"_End_ of discussion." The connection clicked off.

Michelle slammed down the receiver angrily, not sure whether to curse or cry. Closing her eyes, she put her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe. She felt sick. She felt like she was suffocating. Pressing down on her was the knowledge that there was no way to get out of the transfer, nothing she could do, and that scared her. Michelle knew she had no control over the situation, and she hated having no control.

A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her head dropped into her hands. She drew three deep breathes, and then pulled herself together enough to get up and walk briskly, almost robotically, to Jack's office.

When she reached the office, Michelle closed the glass door behind her and leaned against it, biting her lip and looking up at the ceiling. In an instant, Jack was out of his seat and facing her, a hand on her arm.

"Michelle?"

"Hammond's transferring me out of LA," she stated flatly.

Jack took a small step back let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there anyway you can get out of it?"

She shook her head slightly.

"When?"

"Beginning of next week."

That got his attention, and he looked up quickly. "That soon?"

Biting her lip again, she nodded silently.

"Michelle, I'm sorry."

Giving something like a laugh, Michelle managed to focus her gaze directly on him. "Me too." Uncomfortable silence followed, and Michelle turned to leave. "I should go. I shouldn't have even—"

"Michelle!" He cut her off. "It's okay."

She bit her lip and left silently.

* * *

Michelle slammed the front door behind her and stormed into the house, boiling over with anger fueled by pain. She dumped her purse and bag unceremoniously on the floor and looked about wildly for the nearest small object. An empty water glass was sitting out on the counter, and she took it in her hand, staring at it—cold and empty— for a few frozen moments before hurling it across the room. It was a neat, powerful throw and Michelle was pleased to see it meet the exact point she'd aimed for—a spot on the wall with nothing hanging on it, and nothing below it—with impeccable precision. The glass smashed, shattering the silence of the room along with the glass. 

At the sound, Michelle let out a sharp cry and slid to the floor, dropping her head into her knees. She was disgusted with herself. Pathetic. That was the only word she could find—she was just pathetic. Here she was, acting irrational and childish and downright stupid for no reason she could discern, and she couldn't even do _that_ right; no, she had to be rational and throw the glass where it would be easy to clean up. She was doing a half-assed job of being irrational and stupid; couldn't she ever do _anything_ right?

Michelle put her hands to her face and breathed slowly, trying to concentrate completely on inhaling and exhaling. Maybe she wanted to have a nervous breakdown; maybe she wanted to feel needy and never have to deal with this, or anything—but she didn't have that luxury. She'd been indulging in constant crying and self-pity for two months by then, and she decided that enough was enough.

It was time to pull herself together.

* * *

The Seattle job was a temporary post, and Division was paying for her furnished suite. On an intellectual level, Michelle was glad; that meant that their house would be there to return to and she could keep paying the mortgage. But living in what was essentially a hotel for months was a far from appealing prospect. 

She wasn't even packing most of her things, which cast a strange feeling over the whole thing. It didn't feel like she was moving; she was just… leaving. Leaving her life behind and going somewhere undefined.

So she robotically folded her work clothes and packed her toiletries. Michelle somehow couldn't justify bringing very much in the way of casual clothing; she was going to Seattle to work and as she dully sifted through her closet, she just didn't see the potential for any occasion to do much else.

Michelle went through the uppermost dresser drawers, pulling out her underwear but leaving negligees and impractically lacy bras behind. Sighing, she pushed them all the way to the back of the drawer, and then shoved a few pairs of jeans she wasn't taking in front of them so that the lingerie was no longer visible. Quietly, she slid the drawers shut.

Finally, Michelle snatched Memee off the bed and shoved the stuffed bunny back into the back of the closet.

* * *

There was one last thing for Michelle to do before she left: tell Tony. Even as she went through the now depressingly familiar process of clearing prison security, she didn't know exactly how she was going to do it. 

Tony looked up at Michelle as she sat down quietly before him. "Michelle," he said flatly.

"Tony." Her voice trembled a little as she said his name, either with sadness or perhaps tenderness, and she saw her husband soften a little.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," she told him softly. "What about you?"

Tony shrugged. "Okay." The pattern of fresh and fading bruises that crisscrossed his visible skin indicated otherwise, but Michelle didn't know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. Unsure, she raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face; in the process her sleeve dropped a little, exposing the gauze bandage on her arm. Tony shifted in his seat. "What happened to your arm?"

Coloring slightly, Michelle glanced down. "It's not a big deal."

His voice was a little harsher as he asked again, "What happened, Michelle?"

She bit her lip. "I was in the field last week, and I got cut. That's all." Again, Michelle looked away.

Tony dropped his head into a hand. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay."

He accepted her answer, and Michelle couldn't stop herself from thinking that it wasn't so long ago he would have scrutinized her inside and out before he'd even consider that she was all right. It used to drive her out of her mind when Tony acted that way, but his failure do so today filled her with a feeling she couldn't quite identify: a little like concern and a little like dread.

Looking up with no more than idle curiosity Tony asked, "Why were you in the field, anyway?"

"Jack needed a woman with him. To look like a couple."

He nodded. "Who were you after?"

More uncomfortable than she could ever remember being in her life, Michelle swallowed and could again feel herself blushing. "I, uh, I… I can't tell you that."

With a short, bitter laugh, Tony looked down. "No. I guess you can't."

"I'm sorry," Michelle said softly. It was the first time, since the day she'd met Tony, that she'd had information she couldn't legally share with him. _But there were times he had information he didn't give you,_ the stupid voice inside her head told her. She hated that voice, hated it, hated it…

"I'm going to Seattle," Michelle blurted out suddenly.

That got Tony's attention. "What?" he demanded curtly, looking at her.

"I'm being transferred," she said quietly, "I can't get out of it."

"You're leaving?" His voice was stoic, but the silent vulnerability in his eyes was far from lost on Michelle.

She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. "It's not too far to come down to visit you."

"But you're leaving."

"I have to, Tony."

"You're leaving," he repeated listlessly.

She shook her head. "I don't want to, Tony. I miss you. I miss you so much. Don't you understand that, Tony? That I love you and I miss you?"

"Yeah."

* * *

By the time Michelle's flight landed in Seattle, her nerves were stretched dangerously thin. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she was short with the cab driver and shorter still with the reception desk at her hotel. 

Michelle reached her suite and shut the door behind her, surveying her surroundings with weary eyes. It was perfectly adequate; she would have no difficulty whatsoever living there fore several months. But everything—_everything—_was dismally impersonal.

With a dispirited sigh, Michelle set her purse on the table, her briefcase on the desk, and briefly considered unpacking her suitcases before deciding to shower first. She made her way through the kitchen area and bedroom to the bathroom, and stripped off her rumpled clothes. She stepped under the hot, soothing spray of the shower, and even forty minutes later, found herself reluctant to get out. In the enclosed, steam-filled shower, Michelle felt blessedly detached, and she never wanted to get out. But common sense was stronger, and she eventually got out and dressed.

Michelle considered what to do next. She only had this afternoon free, and was starting work the following morning. Alone in a new city, Michelle could think of very little to do. She considered shopping, which would at the very least give her something to do. But for the same reason she'd left so much of her wardrobe in LA, Michelle vetoed the shopping idea. She just had no reason to wear or use anything that would be any fun to shop for.

So, feeling more than a little disheartened, Michelle set about the tedious business of unpacking.

* * *

The next morning, Michelle dressed neatly in a well-tailored business suit and gathered up her briefcase and a hot cup of coffee as she left. She was unwilling to admit even to herself that she was feeling somewhat unsure about starting, even if she was entering this position at the top, not the bottom, and all but a few of the people at the Homeland branch would be under her command. Professionally, she was self-assured, knowing that she had the expertise and confidence to do her job well. But at the same time, it was impossible to fend off the little bit of apprehension about going to a new place where she knew no one. 

Michelle entered the building, showing her CTU ID and her Division keycard that granted her her high-level access to all government buildings. She was directed to the office of a Mr. Buchanan, head of the Homeland branch, and approached it with confidence. Michelle knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

Michelle pushed open the door, and the man sitting at the desk rose as she entered. He offered his hand, introducing himself. "Bill Buchanan."

She extended her own hand and shook his firmly. "Michelle Dessler."

* * *

Bill was shocked by the woman who entered his office that Monday morning. He was familiar with her exemplary record and impressive range of expertise, had reviewed her profile and read a brief report about her from Brad Hammond. He'd seen her picture and knew she was an attractive woman, had read on her file that she was only thirty-four years old. 

But none of this could prepare him for the woman who walked in the door. He was stunned by her relative youth and, if he was being honest with himself, her attractiveness.

But her eyes—her eyes were as incongruous to the rest of her physical appearance as they could possibly be. They were hard, too hard. There was a look about her eyes that Bill, a man used to seeing seasoned agents, recognized all too well. It was the haunted look of one who had seen too much death, done too much of the unspeakable, borne too much responsibility. It was an unsettling look, especially in such a young woman with such a coldly professional demeanor. Bill Buchanan honestly didn't know what to make of her.

* * *

As Bill familiarized Michelle with the system and staff of Homeland, his manner was crisply professional, but it had a tinge of warmth that Michelle appreciated. Already, it seemed like an eternity since she'd had genuine human contact. 

By the time Michelle left that evening, she was exhausted and already feeling the stress of new responsibilities. But it wasn't until she'd heated up a pre-cooked meal and logged into her laptop alone in her room that Michelle realized just how lonely she was.

When Michelle's cell phone rang, she was expecting it to be a work call. So she was surprised when the response to her resigned, "Dessler," was Chloe's perpetually exasperated voice. "Michelle? It's Chloe?"

"Chloe. How are you?"

"I've been better. Look, there've been some changes down here."

"Changes?"

"Hammond put Driscoll in charge."

"Erin Driscoll?"

"Yup. And she already sucks at this job. And… she fired Jack."

"She did?"

"That's what I just said."

"_Why?_" Michelle found herself vaguely wondering when she'd lost the capacity to speak in any form other than bewildered questions.

"Why do you _think_, Michelle? Because he's erratic and irresponsible. Because he's a junkie."

"But he's the best."

"You think I don't know that? I know that just as well as you do."

"I suppose you do."

"Yeah. I suppose so too. Anyway, I just thought you should know."

"Thank you, Chloe. I appreciate that."

"Yeah, well. Anyway. I've gotta go. Bye."

"Take care, Chl—" Michelle was cut off as Chloe, in true Chloe form, hung up. She sighed, dismayed and a little surprised but not exactly shocked. She knew she'd have to be replaced but she was hoping for someone a little more competent than Driscoll, but in the back of her mind she knew that Driscoll was the logical choice. And she had figured that letting Jack go was a very real possibility for just about any director except her, but that didn't remove the sting of injustice.

Michelle considered calling Jack, but decided to wait a bit. Though it was unspoken, it was obvious that Chloe had called to tell her was because they both knew that Jack would never tell her on his own. And for the moment, Michelle was willing to give him the distance and let it go.

So she forcibly pushed all extraneous thoughts away and, returning to her laptop, continued to work.


End file.
